The White Wolf (Half-Breed Book 1) (9 page)

Varg turned and saw the same man with dark skin and pale hair he'd seen before, only now the man had a name. What's more, Varg noticed for the first time that he had pointed ears.

“He's another elf,” Varg whispered to Milea.

“Not like my kind, though,” Milea whispered back. “This one is a water elf. They're from a continent across the ocean.”

The priest ignored their comments and instead addressed the water elf named Tain. “I trust you will be leaving with the girl shortly?”

“I would,” Tain said, “but it appears that the girl is gone.”

The priest straightened up and stepped forward. “What? How in the world could she have escaped?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Tain offered. “As long as I have no prisoner to escort, I am of no use here.”

The priest looked around the room and gestured to two robed cultists near the entrance, a set of wooden doors. “I want the two of you to tell the others to search high and low for that girl.”

The two men bowed, creaked the doors open, and darted down the corridor.

Then the priest looked to Tain again and added, “You will report back to the Serpent that we have the White Wolf and the huntress in custody.”

“Fine by me,” Tain said. “I get paid either way.”

Tain turned and left through the double doors behind him. Everyone waited for the sound of his footsteps to stop, then the priest said, “Now then, back to business.”

“If you aren't going to kill us, then what do you plan to do with us?” Milea asked.

“Oh you will die, dear, but only after the Serpent decides how. Should he make an example by leaving your heads on the doorsteps of our enemies, or should he just keep things quiet and slay you on the spot? It's really all fun to think of the possibilities,” the priest mused. “The only certainty is that the Serpent will use you to send a message to others who are foolish enough to stand in our way.”

“You think we're the only ones who will fight?” Varg retorted. “If Lionel's death couldn't scare us away, what makes you think ours will scare others?”

“You think this is just about inciting fear?” the priest laughed. “The Serpent isn't satisfied with people simply fearing him. He wants the world to see what he's capable of, that no matter who stands in his way, he and his followers will obliterate them one by one.”

“Then is this an issue of pride, or simply vanity?” Varg remarked.

The priest chuckled. “Typical unworthy wretch, you pass judgment on a man you've never met for 'sins' that you yourself have more than likely committed.”

Varg cursed under his breath. “You should consider yourself lucky my hands are tied, otherwise they would be choking the life out of you.”

“Keep running your mouth and I just might do that to you,” the priest snapped.

Varg smirked, then said, “Oh? Do I detect a bit of a temper under that shadow cloak?”

“Do not test me, you wretch,” the priest snapped. “You don't want to know what happens to those that do.”

“Come and get me then, if you think you're man enough,” Varg dared.

“Varg, what on earth are you doing?” Milea barked.

Varg laughed. “Don't worry, Milea, he's doesn't have the balls to—”

His sentence was halted abruptly when the priest charged forward and gripped Varg's throat with a bony hand. He squeezed with all his might to ensure no breath could escape.

“I warned you, fool,” the priest growled. “The Serpent may reprimand me for denying him the pleasure of ending your life, but you cause more trouble than you're worth.”

Varg struggled for breath, but had just enough to grumble, “First rule of capturing a jotun . . .”

In a flash Varg's hands came flying out of their bond and gripped the priest's arm. The priest's arm slowly grew a layer of ice under Varg's hands. Unable to move away, the priest watched in horror as his own arm slowly froze solid and continued over the rest of his body. By the time he managed to break away from Varg's grip, the ice did not stop until his entire body was a frozen husk.

Varg stood up and to everyone's astonishment, he tossed his frozen, broken bonds onto the floor. Then he stared at the frozen statue that was all that was left of the priest, then said, “. . . beware of his bite.”

The remaining cultists prepared to attack as Varg froze and broke off Milea's bindings.

The half-elf spun out of her chair and rushed to Varg's side, then said, “What now? We aren't armed and your powers can only get us so far.”

Varg didn't openly admit that he didn't think his entire plan through, but he was determined to fight his way out of the stronghold regardless of the odds. Just when he was facing the crowd of aggressive cultists and forming an escape plan in his mind, Varg's thoughts were interrupted when the double doors flew open.

Everyone turned to face the doors expecting more cultists to arrive, but they were instead met by dozens of men in blue and silver armor. One of the men, who was covered head-to-toe in solid steel, stepped forward into the room with his sword and shield drawn.

“By the order of the Count of Ironbarrow, you are all under arrest for unlawful and unholy practices, kidnapping civilians, and murder. I hereby order all of you to stand down and face justice.”

Instead of heeding the plated warrior's warning, the cultists lunged forward with spells ready and were met by the rest of the unknown armed soldiers. Soldier and cultist alike collided, turning the small chamber into a bloody battlefield.

Milea dragged Varg to the back of the room and they ducked behind the altar to avoid the carnage. “We need to find Erril and get out of here. There's no way we can hope to survive unarmed.”

Just when Varg was about to respond, Milea looked behind him and said, “Erril!”

Varg turned to see a small, dirty girl crouching beside him with a knife in her hand and a satchel across her chest.

“What are you doing here?” the girl asked.

“Would you believe us if we told you we were here to rescue you?” Varg asked.

Erril stared at him and remarked, “Fine job of that.”

Milea ignored her remark and countered, “What are you doing in the middle of a battle, Erril? You're going to get killed!”

Erril then said, “I'm here to return the favor you gave me. I'll start by leading you to the armory so you can get your equipment. Follow me!”

Erril turned and darted through the quarrel with amazing speed, and Varg and Milea quickly followed. Varg shielded himself and Milea from stray blade strikes with a large ice shield he formed on his arm. He rushed forward until they made it into the corridor. The girl led them to a stone staircase, which they followed to the bottom floor. She then led them to a door near the entrance and shoved it open to reveal an armory, where Frost Fang awaited Varg's grasp against the back wall.

Varg quickly darted towards his prized blade and as he grasped the handle, he felt whole again. He brandished the cool blade in both hands and smiled.“I've missed you . . .”

“Oh please,” Erril muttered.

Milea hastily retrieved her blade, bow, quiver, satchel, and cloak, then turned back to the others and said, “That should do it. Let's get out of here.”

As they emerged into the corridor just before the exit, the corpses of several assassins and soldiers lay sprawled and bloody on the floor, and the rumbling sound of battle could be heard in the courtyard. When they made it outside, they were immediately met by another battle looming before the enormous portcullis. The soldiers had apparently been ambushed by the cultists after they infiltrated the hideout, and were now desperately trying to regain control over the gate.

Milea exchanged a look with Varg and asked, “Who are these soldiers?”

“Are you really going to complain when they're helping us escape?” Varg asked.

“No, but I fear their efforts may be in vain,” Milea replied.

She pointed to the gate, where several cultists armed themselves with bows and let loose arrows unto the invading soldiers. The hardened men fought tooth and nail to regain control of the gate, but if the archers missed their marks, the cultists on the ground in front of the gate dealt swift deaths to the soldiers.

Varg's head snapped to the left to avoid an oncoming arrow, which struck the wooden arch behind him. It was then that he noticed the archers on the top of the walls surrounding the stronghold. They focused on the soldiers in the back of the crowd and it was evident that if they were dispatched, the soldiers would be either killed, captured, or worse.

“We have to stop those archers,” Erril said.

“
We
do, Erril,” Milea said. “You need to get to safety.”

“Where do you expect me to find cover? Under a bale of hay?” Erril remarked while pointing to the stables that had just caught fire from a stray arrow. “Until we can get those archers out of the way, I'm stuck in this battle.”

“I can take some of them out with my bow, but I don't think I kill enough of them before they kill the soldiers . . . or us,” Milea lamented.

“Don't worry, I have an idea,” Erril announced.

Like a fox, Erril darted off into the battle before Milea or Varg could stop her. The girl flew through the chaos as she drew a knife and cut through the cultist's legs and ankles before they even saw her. Varg admitted to himself that he was impressed by her speed, but he still ran after her to protect her from any harm while Milea agreed to protect his flank. Erril ran through the crowded battle towards the front gate, where the guards were waiting for her. Each of them slashed forward after her, but her quick movements helped her avoid their blades.

Erril stopped just before the gate and produced a small gray round object from her pocket. Varg realized what the object was when Erril lit a fuse on the object on a nearby torch. She tossed the small bomb over the wall, where it landed near the archers.

“Run!” Erril screamed at Varg.

Erril ran his way, so he grabbed the girl with both arms and spun himself around so that he faced away from the impending blast. A second later, a deafening inferno erupted behind him. The stinging heat bit the skin on his back, but otherwise did not harm him or Erril.

The blast killed every archer above the gate and hurled their charred bodies into the air. The soldiers took advantage of the sudden shift in control and lead a full assault on the gate. The cultists who survived the blast were slaughtered before they could recompose themselves. Milea aided the rest of the soldiers with her blade in close combat with the remaining cultists.

Varg turned to see the soldiers taking control of the gate at last. They release the mechanism that held the gigantic portcullis in place, and soon the iron bars began to rise and open the path outside of the fortress. Varg released his grip on Erril and ordered, “Go, get out of here!”

Erril arose to her feet, faced Varg, and said, “I'll wait on the other side—”

To Varg's horror, a cultist's arrow flew from the west wall and struck Erril directly in the ribcage. The shock of what had happened left her disoriented as she coughed and hacked blood and fell to the ground. Milea ran to the girl's aid and held her to shield her from further attacks.

Varg shrieked with rage and searched the crowd for the shooter. When he spotted the culprit, a cultist on the top of the western tower, Varg positioned his hands a few inches apart with his palms facing one another and poured his energy into a solid piece of ice. Varg launched the ice into the direction of the shooter and as it traveled through the air, the ice formed a sharp, spear-like projectile that was nearly longer than Varg was tall. The icy spear made a direct hit and impaled the shooter through his chest and left an empty cavity that bled out in seconds. The remains of the cultists then fell from the tower and hit the ground like an old rag doll.

Varg then ran to Milea's side and helped her carry Erril outside of the gate. The soldiers who had witnessed what happened covered their flank as they ran and also covered them until they reached the safety of the woods. Varg and Milea stopped just at the edge of the wood and propped Erril against a tree.

Erril gasped for air and muttered, “Take it out. Take the arrow out.”

“Hold on, Erril,” Milea said. “I have to do this carefully, otherwise you will bleed to death.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Erril grumbled.

To Milea's horror, Erril yanked the arrow out and let out a blood curdling scream. Milea desperately tried to open Erril's old shirt to tend to the wound, but Erril stopped her.

“It's going to be fine, Milea,” Erril insisted. “Just watch.”

Erril carefully lifted her shirt to reveal the wound, only it wasn't nearly as severe as it should have been. In the seconds that passed, the wound was rapidly healing before their astonished eyes. They stared in awe until the wound sealed as if it was never there.

Varg and Milea looked Erril in the eyes, and with a look of amusement, the girl said, “I told you I always heal up.”

CHAPTER 8

WHEN THE BATTLE FINALLY SUBSIDED, the soldiers had collected the surviving cultists and swiftly arrested them. As they loaded the cultists onto prison carts, the plated warrior ordered a group of his men to escort them to a nearby prison where they would be interrogated and rightly punished for their crimes. As the cart pulled away, the remaining soldiers began to pay their final respects to their fallen comrades.

Erril had soon regained enough strength to stand, despite the fact that Varg advised her against it. She walked through the gate to investigate the aftermath of the massacre and Varg and Milea followed her.

As they walked, Milea stayed by Erril's side and asked, “Where did you get that power, Erril? I've never seen anything like it.”

“I've always had it,” the girl said. “As long as I can remember, I would be injured one minute and healed the next.”

“It's truly astounding,” Milea said.

“Not to mention how quick she is on her feet,” Varg added.

Varg looked to the crowd of soldiers again. There were many casualties on their part, but because of Erril's quick thinking and movement, many more were spared. He caught a glimpse of the man in charge once again and when the armored man met his gaze, he began to walk towards them. When he was within hand-shaking distance, the steel soldier removed his helmet.

The warrior was a middle-aged man with a bearded face and confident features. He smiled and held out an armored hand to Varg. “You handled yourselves well. You must be seasoned warriors.”

Varg accepted the handshake, then answered, “We can't take all the credit. We had help, after all.”

The warrior allowed his hand to fall back to his side, then said, “Aye, but few can say they can conjure ice from nothing or fight with the cunning and agility of a wild cat. We owe you our thanks, great warriors.” The soldier then looked to Erril and added, “Especially to you, young lady.”

Erril strained to stand up, despite Milea's insisting she rest, and then she said, “I only wanted to get away from there. The archers were just blocking my exit.”

“Where did you find those bombs?” Varg asked. “What's more, how did you know how to use them?”

“After the soldiers freed me from the dungeon, they told me to hide. I didn't, of course, so I found some equipment in a supply room and the bombs were sitting on a table. They weren't difficult to figure out,” Erril explained.

“You are quite resourceful,” the soldier commented.

“I get by,” Erril muttered.

The soldier then turned to the others and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Conley Rowan, Count of Ironbarrow.”

“We owe you our lives, Count Rowan,” Milea said with a slight bow.

“Please, it's Conley,” the Count replied with another laugh. “It is fortunate we arrived when we did. If we were any later, the Shadow Hand would have killed you all.”

“That priest mentioned something about the Shadow Hand. Is that what that group calls themselves?” Varg asked.

“Aye, and they are growing in number every day,” Conley replied.

“We've been crossing blades with them for a while now. You clearly aren't fond of them either,” Milea commented.

“Why would I be? The Shadow Hand has been nothing but trouble for the past year. They scour the land doing gods know what to innocent civilians and they make everyday life even more dangerous than it already is. When I refused to aid their cause, they began to kidnap civilians and raid shipments from the other counties well as Ironbarrow.”

“They wanted you to join?” Milea asked.

Conley shook his head. “No, I believe that they wanted to form an alliance with me so they could evade the law better. I also suspect they want to use my armed forces for their own purposes. I've been trying to work under the public's nose to rid the problem, because the last thing Ironbarrow needs is a panic to arise from its people.

“This time I had no choice but to strike directly. Last week they ambushed and kidnapped a group of my men who were returning from Virland. They were last seen near here, so we checked into the rumors in the nearby villages and found out the location of this hideout.”

“We didn't see any other prisoners while here,” Milea commented.

“I did,” Erril said. Everyone turned to her and she continued, “Most of them were dead, but one was barely clinging to life near my cell.”

“Yes, my men have already informed me about the survivor. I am actually going to tend to him once I am finished here. Gods only know what that he's has been through,” Conley said. “In the meantime, rest well my friends. Your journey is only just beginning.”

“What do you mean by that?” Varg asked.

“You are The White Wolf, correct? The white-haired warrior who is famed for his work as a bounty hunter?” Conley asked. Varg nodded, so the Count continued, “I normally don't hire outsiders to carry out my missions, but you know more about these cultists than anyone else I've met, and I will take all the allies I can get in the war against these terrorists. Therefore, I wish to pay you and your friends here for your long term services regarding the Shadow Hand.”

Varg and Milea exchanged glances, and then Varg looked back to the Count and said, “It's a deal. What did you have in mind?”

“I would first like to invite you to accompany my troops back to my castle in Ironbarrow, where you will stay as my guests. Then you can explain everything you know about these cultists so that we may decide on a course of action to take next,” Conley said.

“Very well,” Varg agreed.

He shook hands with Conley again and then the Count added, “My men could use a bit of rest after the day they've had, as I'm sure you lot could too. We will make camp and depart in the morning, so be prepared.”

The Count's troops began their march at the crack of dawn and Varg, Milea, and Erril followed with the crowd. Once the sun had completely risen, it revealed the vast, rocky plains of Ironbarrow's landscape. The wide, open countryside proved a pleasing atmosphere after a daunting mission and unsettling turn of events. The path the troops traveled on had a wall of cliffs, hills and caverns along either side, none of which seemed to obstruct the dense trees that dotted the terrains.

By day's end, the troops assured Varg and the others that Ironbarrow was only a short distance away. When they could finally see the peeks of the Count's castle over the edge of the cliff, Conley halted the march and addressed his men.

“March on men,” he called. “Tonight I extend an invitation for you all to join me in celebration over the over our victory against the Shadow Hand in the Great Hall!”

The crowd of soldiers began cheering with glee at the sound of their gracious host's invitation, and Varg himself couldn't help but cracking a smile at the thought of drinking and relaxing for a change.

They continued their march down the path that stretched from the top of the cliff, wrapped around the land and sloped down to the ground, and led them right to the front gate of the city of Ironbarrow. The guards at the front gates greeted the Count as they opened the enormous and sturdy double doors to allow the troops entrance. The troop rode through Ironbarrow, catching the eyes of everyone they passed. Wives approached their husbands and greeted them while others leaned out of windows to wave at their friends and family. Though he didn't know the feeling, Varg enjoyed seeing the pleasing homecoming.

Varg then set his sights on the town structure itself. The wooden buildings lining the road were lined at the bottom with stone and brick. Varg was not surprised to see such amazing craftsmanship when he came across a large mason's shop around the corner the troop passed. As the castle came into view, Conley led the troops across a drawbridge into a courtyard. Once inside the men began dismounting their steeds and bringing them to the stables. Varg brought his own borrowed stallion as well as Milea's and Erril's to the stable while the latter two followed the crowd to the keep entrance.

Once Varg caught up, Conley addressed turned to them and said, “I bid you welcome to my home, Ironstone Keep.”

The guards then opened the double doors that led to an enormous great hall. Two wooden tables lined up on either side of the room. The tables were both covered with a fantastic feast that beckoned the arriving men with it's rich aroma. A third table sat towards the back and facing the door. This table was obviously meant for Conley and his family, for a throne sat against the back wall just behind the table.

“We feast at once!” Conley bellowed.

The men wasted no time in stealing the closest seat they could at the tables. Their rumps barely touched the benches before their hands grabbed goblets, plates, and food alike.

The Count turned to his guests and said, “I invite the three of you to join me and my wife at my personal dining table.” Conley gestured to the third table and gestured for Varg and company to follow. The seats at this table were not benches, but actual chairs made of carved wood. Conley instructed Varg to take the seat on the left of his own chair, which was larger and more detailed. Milea sat on Varg's left and Erril on her left.

The seats had Varg and the others facing the front entrance and looking down upon the feasting soldiers. Varg recognized the smell of mead before him and reached for a goblet. He gulped half the goblet down in seconds and took a deep, appreciative breath.

“That's the best mead I've tasted in ages,” Varg said.

Conley laughed. “It's always a pleasure to meet a fellow man who appreciates good mead.”

Varg noticed in the corner of his eye that Erril was trying to sneak a taste from a nearby goblet, but before he could stop her, the girl was halted by a lovely dark-haired woman.

The woman gently grabbed Erril's goblet and placed it out of her reach, then said, “I don't believe you are old enough to drink mead, young lady.”

Erril glared at the woman, but conceded and began eating a pheasant leg instead. The woman, who bore a sharp, yet gentle expression, then walked over to Conley.

The Count immediately stood up and said, “Catrina, my love, you made it.” Conley turned to Varg and the others and added, “Varg, Milea, Erril, this is my beloved wife, Lady Catrina Rowan.”

Catrina smiled and said, “It's always a pleasure to meet Conley's guests.”

It was then that Varg recognized Catrina as the dark-haired girl in Lionel's family portrait. It was evident that Milea realized this too, for she met Varg's gaze and offered the same expression. He nodded her way, then the two of them stood up and faced Catrina.

Milea stood before the Lady of the household and, after offering a slight bow, said, “My lady, we need to speak with you and your husband in private.”

Before Catrina could answer, Conley interjected. “Surely this can wait until later? You three deserve a great feast after the battle we had.”

Varg looked to Milea, who nodded, and he turned back to Coley and said, “It can wait.”

Once the introductions were complete, Catrina sat to the right of her husband and Varg and the others happily returned to their dinner.

When the feast was done, the soldiers left the castle and returned to the town to see their families. The Count retreated into a room behind his throne, where several servants helped take his armor off. Once he was dressed comfortably, Conley then invited Varg, Milea, and Erril to his study to discuss the events leading up to the incident at the Shadow Hand' hideout. Catrina joined them as requested by Varg an Milea.

“What is this all about?” Catrina asked once they were alone.

“I believe it's best to start with what we wanted to tell you, Lady Catrina,” Milea said.

“What is it?” Catrina pressed.

Varg cleared his throat, took a deep breath, then asked, “Are you the daughter of Count Lionel Lerington?”

Catrina seemed taken aback, surprised that he knew such information, but she collected herself and answered, “Yes, I am, but what does my father have to do with those cultists?”

“We believe your father was investigating the Shadow Hand,” Milea explained.

“How odd, he never mentioned them to me,” Conley said. “I actually warned him about them in case they approached him too.”

“It seems they did, and he refused to cooperate with them. The Shadow Hand didn't take kindly to it,” Varg answered.

“What are you trying to say?” Catrina pressed.

Varg took a deep breath, then answered, “I'm sorry, but your father is dead.”

To his surprise, Catrina initially showed little to no reaction to the news. Despite the noblewoman's desperate attempt to remain graceful and composed, however, the grief settled on her shoulders and her tears came pouring out with no warning. “No . . . no . . .
no
!”

Catrina fell to the floor and sobbed. Being the doting husband he was, Conley quickly knelt beside his wife and wrapped his arms around her. Her tears stained his vest and though Though Varg managed to keep his composure, the image of Catrina's grief struck him right to the core.

Once Catrina was pacified for the time being, she stood and continued to lean against her husband's shoulder.