Chapter 22
Alaric
It’s late in the day when I find it. So tiny, I have to squint and bend down from Tharrok’s back to make sure I haven’t imagined it.
A small scrap of clothing. Rich red, velvet, and covered in mud and leaves. Sliding from the saddle, I bend and pick it up, turning it in my hands. This is not the sort of fabric a knight or woodsman wears. This is the sort of fabric reserved for the highborn.
But this is also not the color the princess was wearing when I took her. So perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps some other nobleman has lost his way in the woods; perhaps his party was ambushed and he was taken by a monster and this is all that remains.
Then I see the scuff marks in the dirt. Displaced leaf litter, broken sticks. Tufts of dire wolf fur are strewn on the ground. There is no blood, though.
Now I’ve seen it, I can’t believe I missed it before. The evidence is practically begging for my attention, but I was too distracted to see it. Yet this is what I was looking for all along.
Part of me hoped she would return to Blackthorn Keep by now.
Part was half scared of what would happen if she did.
The last sliver was too busy torturing himself over and over with remembered glimpses of her impaled on my cock, squeezing me tight, while conscience warred with pleasure to take control of my mind.
I almost wish she had cried. I would have stopped sooner.
I should have put her out of her misery instead of leaving her changed, alone in the woods.
A noise from behind me slows my movements. I rise cautiously, not springing into action lest I give whatever is watching me a clue that I’ve realized it’s there. Until whoever or whatever it is knows for sure that I’m onto them, then I have the advantage.
Keeping my senses alert, I move to my saddle bag and pretend to look for something.
When there’s no movement from behind, I cautiously slip a foot into the stirrup and mount my horse.
Still nothing.
Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps it’s only the wolf back to see if his last bony meal of fabric scraps has anything left to offer. I can’t imagine he got much nourishment from Guinevere’s cold dead flesh. He’ll be equally disappointed when he realizes that’s all he’ll get from me too.
Tharrok’s ear flicks nervously. I tighten the reins and turn him to face east, in the direction the disturbances in the dirt point me to. And I keep my senses tuned to our surroundings in case we’re followed.
At first I hear nothing. As we pick our way between the trees, the path gradually widens, opening out into what was once a clearing.
I can see the sky between the treetops and in the valley beyond, a crumbling ruin.
Moss and vines cover the stones. Trees grow up where turrets once stood, but I spot the shape of a strong holdfast, where once there must have been high walls and a drawbridge.
The snap of a twig in the undergrowth behind us makes me smile. That was no dire wolf. That was the sound of a boot. So she follows me and watches. But will she act?
A sharp sting pieces my skin the moment before I register the impact.
Tharrok startles at my sudden indrawn breath, and I rein him in, stopping him from bolting.
Twisting, I yank the throwing knife from my shoulder and search the woods for my attacker.
If this is Guinevere, she has not wasted her time in the forest. Who taught her to throw with such accuracy? Who gave her the knife?
Before I can draw any conclusions, another blade comes sailing through the air and I am forced to dodge or pull another knife from my chest.
Tharrok whickers. I slide from his saddle and pat him, whispering a soft word to calm him. Then I stride forward, making sure I am the target and not my steed who might be hurt. “Show yourself if you would fight me.”
My words ring out and disappear into the dark forest with no answer.
I scowl. Guinevere has always been hot-headed. She isn’t one to hide in shadows and bide her time. So why hasn’t she launched an outright attack?
As I think this I catch a glimpse—a flash of deep green between the trunks of the trees. Leaving my sword sheathed, I jog in that direction, hoping to flush her out. But when I near the place I spotted her, she is gone and I can find no trace of her.
A shadow draws my focus to the sky for a moment, but I see nothing. I frown. There is something I do not understand here.
I tarry like that for hours, into the deep dark of midnight, thinking every moment that I should turn back for Blackthorn. But I hate to have come so close and not find her. Every time I’m almost ready to give up, I catch another glimpse that stays me.
The forest grows still. The stars open their eyes to wink down at me, and the moon rises, casting a ghostly light through the branches.
All of a sudden there’s a cry, and a figure launches at me from the trees. Dressed as a young man in a green jacket and hose beneath leather riding boots, her figure is anything but masculine. The tight clothing reveals feminine curves, and I’m struck for a moment by the changes in her.
Once pretty, her beauty now is striking. Her skin is pale and perfect, unmarred even by the rosy blush that used to paint her cheeks. Her dark eyes burn with rage as she charges at me, lifting a sword made for a much taller man with apparent ease.
I have a single moment to take in this new Guinevere, no longer the princess. Now every inch a deadly queen. Then the sword slices through the air, and I’m forced to dodge or lose an ear—if only temporarily.
When I evade her blow, she twists, using the momentum of her movement to swing around and slash at me again. If I had the time to pause and appreciate her swordsmanship I’d be impressed. She performs better than most of my new recruits, though she’s had no formal training.
“Are you afraid to fight me?” she screams as she wheels around and charges again.
I laugh. She is faster now. Her strength and senses heightened by the change just as I suspected. This is almost a challenge. “You are wasting your time, princess.”
She grunts, though shows no sign that hefting the heavy sword is tiring her, but it must be costing. “I count it time well spent if I slay a monster today.”
She swings again, and she’s so quick I have to dive and roll, stumbling to my feet again and almost tripping. I hadn’t counted on her having come so far already. This might be easier than I thought.
My horse whinnies and I have half a second to wonder why before a force like two boulders rolling down a hill knocks me to the ground.
The air is forced from my lungs, and I blink at the shape coming into focus.
On top of me, pinning me to the ground, is an angel with huge, feathered wings and a handsome face framed by golden ringlets.
I struggle, but the creature is too strong from his position on top of me.
“Bind him!”
Another two figures emerge from the trees with lengths of rope in their hands and I stare. These have lion’s legs and tails with the same bird-like wings, one dark, one white like the angel. They have the upper bodies and faces of pretty youths.
Guinevere stands over me as the three winged creatures bind me hand and foot. Her hand on her hip and a cruel smile on her face, she sneers at me. “And now you pay in kind for every crime you have committed against me.”