Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Nero took a shaky breath as for once Casteel listened and ran.
But now he had to ensure they weren't able follow him.
He counted at least eight mercenaries spread out in a practiced formation, their weapons gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Their leader, a scarred veteran with white hair, gestured sharply to his men as Nero's massive silver form materialized between them and the fleeing Casteel.
"Take the wolf alive," the man barked. "He will bring the mate to heel."
“But sarge,” came the shaky voice. “It’s not supposed to be him. I thought it was the stable boy.”
“Take the wolf,” roared the sergeant, and Nero grinned to himself. Eight? Not bad odds. They assumed an easy target. They weren’t expecting a battle-hardened warrior. He liked surprising people.
Nero's wolf-sight tracked the mercenaries' movements with detached precision.
Three moved to flank him on the left, two on the right, while the leader and his remaining men advanced straight ahead.
They'd clearly fought shifters before—their formation was designed to prevent him from focusing on any single target.
The first attacker came from his right side, a lean man with twin daggers who moved with the fluid grace of someone trained in knife fighting.
Nero spun to meet him, his massive jaws snapping shut on the man's sword arm before he could bring his weapons to bear.
The mercenary's scream echoed off the rocks as Nero's fangs found bone.
But even as he dealt with that threat, the others were moving. A crossbow bolt whistled past his ear, close enough to part his fur. Another mercenary thrust with a spear, the iron point scoring a line across Nero's ribs as he twisted away from the worst of the blow.
Pain flared along his side—not the crippling agony of the arrow wounds, but enough to fuel his rage. The wolf within him snarled its fury, demanding blood for blood. But Nero's human mind remained in control, calculating angles and distances even as his body moved with inhuman speed.
He released the knife fighter, leaving the man clutching a mangled arm, and launched himself at the spearman. His shoulder struck the mercenary's chest with the force of a battering ram, sending the man flying backward into a boulder with a sickening crack.
"Nets!" the leader shouted. "Don't kill him. Bring him down!"
Two more mercenaries produced weighted nets, spreading them wide as they advanced from opposite sides. Nero recognized the tactic—they meant to entangle him, rob him of his mobility until they could subdue him with sheer numbers.
Through his bond with Casteel, he felt a distant pulse of fear. His mate was still running, still free, but something was wrong. The connection carried undertones of desperation that made Nero's protective instincts flare even hotter.
The first net sailed through the air toward him.
Nero dropped low, letting it pass overhead, then surged upward to catch the second net-thrower's throat in his jaws.
The man's cry cut off abruptly as Nero's fangs found their mark.
But as the mercenary fell, the weighted net wrapped around Nero's hindquarters, the lead sinkers tangling in his fur and restricting his movement.
The leader seized the opportunity, rushing forward with a heavy club aimed at Nero's skull. Nero twisted desperately, the blow glancing off his shoulder instead of his head, but the impact sent white-hot pain shooting through his already wounded side.
More crossbow bolts hissed through the air. One found its mark, punching through the meat of his thigh. Another scored across his flank, drawing a line of fire across his ribs. The wolf's healing abilities were already working to close the wounds, but each injury slowed him fractionally.
"He's tiring," the leader called to his remaining men. "Press the attack!"
But Nero wasn't tiring—he was calculating. Through their bond, Casteel's terror spiked suddenly, a desperate pulse that cut through everything else. His mate was in immediate danger, and these mercenaries were keeping him from reaching the man he'd sworn to protect.
He'd lost one mate to failure. It wouldn't happen a second time.
The wolf's rage erupted with volcanic force.
Nero's howl shattered the mountain stillness, a sound that spoke of ancient fury and territorial dominance.
He twisted within the net's confines, his enhanced strength allowing him to snap several of the weighted cords.
With a surge of power that surprised even him, he tore free of the remaining entanglement and launched himself at the nearest mercenary.
His claws raked across the man's chest, shredding leather armor as if it were parchment. The mercenary's scream died as Nero's weight bore him to the ground, jaws closing around his throat with crushing finality.
The four mercenaries fell back, their confidence shaken by the wolf's sudden escalation in violence. But their leader rallied them with harsh commands, and they spread out again, trying to maintain their tactical advantage.
Nero didn't give them the chance. He moved like lightning between them, using his supernatural speed and the rocky terrain to his advantage.
When the crossbow wielder tried to reload, Nero was on him before the bolt could be seated.
When two men tried to flank him simultaneously, he used a boulder as a springboard to leap over their heads and strike from behind.
Within minutes, another two lay dead or dying among the rocks. The leader and one remaining fighter had retreated to higher ground, their faces pale with the realization that they had severely underestimated their quarry.
"Call it off," Nero snarled after shifting, his voice carrying the harmonics of both wolf and man. "You've lost."
The leader's scarred face twisted with desperate fury. "Doran pays well, but he pays better for success." He raised a horn to his lips and blew a long, piercing note that echoed across the mountains.
The sound sent ice through Nero's veins. It wasn't a retreat signal—it was a call for reinforcements.
The horn's echo had barely faded when answering calls rang out from multiple directions—north, east, and disturbingly, from the direction Casteel had fled. The mercenaries hadn't been alone. This had been a coordinated hunt, with multiple groups positioned to drive their quarry into waiting traps.
Nero felt another spike of terror, from Casteel this one sharp enough to make his vision blur with shared panic. His mate was surrounded, cornered, and Nero was still trapped here dealing with the remnants of this ambush.
"Your pretty boy's walked right into our net," the leader taunted, though he kept his distance from Nero's silver form. "Captain's men have him by now. Probably putting chains on him as we speak."
Rage unlike anything Nero had ever experienced tore through him. The wolf's protective instincts merged with his own, creating something that fused both human emotion and animal fury. His howl this time carried such primal force that loose stones tumbled from the cliff faces above.
The remaining mercenary broke and ran, scrambling up the rocky slope with terror-driven speed. But the leader held his ground, his scarred face twisted with malicious satisfaction.
"Kill me if you want," the man called. "Won't change anything. By the time you reach your mate, he'll be halfway back to Doran's dungeons. The High Priest has special plans for the Silver Wolf's lover."
Nero's response was to shift and launch himself up the slope with impossible speed. The leader had time for one startled curse before death fell upon him. The man's sword never even cleared its sheath.
When it was over, Nero stood among the carnage, his sides heaving with exertion and fury.
Blood matted his silver fur—some his own, most belonging to the mercenaries who had dared threaten what was his.
Through their bond, he could still feel Casteel's terror, but it was distant now, muted by whatever was happening to his mate.
Hold on, he pushed the words through their connection, pouring every ounce of will into them. I'm coming.
The transformation back to human form left him gasping, his wounds healed by the shift but pain and weakness lingered. He forced himself to move, gathering weapons from the fallen mercenaries and trying to determine which direction the horn calls had come from.
The smell of smoke reached him first, acrid and wrong in the clean mountain air. Then came other scents that made his stomach clench—blood, fear, and the distinctive musk of violence recently done. His wolf-enhanced hearing picked up voices ahead, rough laughter that carried no joy, only cruelty.
He crested a small rise and froze at the sight below.
A modest farmstead was nestled in a sheltered hollow, its fields showing the careful cultivation of people who had carved life from harsh mountain soil.
But smoke rose from the collapsed roof of the main building, and dark stains spread across the packed earth of the yard.
Four soldiers in mismatched armor stood around the smoldering ruins, their weapons still bloodied from recent use. At their feet lay two bodies—a man whose throat gaped open like a second mouth, and a woman whose torn clothing and positioning told a story that made Nero's jaw clench with rage.
But it was the small figure cowering against the stone foundation that made his heart stop.
A boy, perhaps six or seven years old, with dark hair and wide eyes that held the kind of terror that came from witnessing unspeakable things.
One of the soldiers was advancing on him with deliberate slowness, clearly savoring the child's fear.
"Come now, little rabbit," the soldier called in a voice thick with false kindness. "We won't hurt you. Much."