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The last great black wolf fell with a whimper as Calain brought her blade down, severing its head from its shaggy neck. The wolves’ black bodies were scattered around her, staring, bleeding from long fangs, twice the size of normal wolves. There were nine of them. An entire pack had attacked her! Gweneth had told Calain that the black wolves found across the realms were not like their small grey brethren, who shied from humans and chased only deer and rabbits. No, the black wolves were vicious and went brazenly after a lone human the moment they spotted one. They were known as Skoll Wolves. Gweneth had told Calain that, though she didn’t want to think of Gweneth right now.
Panting, Calain wiped her blade clean in the grass and sheathed it on her back, for she had left her cloak back at Wolf Fortress. She wondered what the others were doing, if they had set out after her yet. Probably not. She had likely cracked Gweneth’s skull, a fact she wasn’t proud of, and the others would have their hands full nursing her back to health.
Calain turned and glanced around irritably. Her satchel had been spilled during the fight, and the contents were scattered, some sliding into the water, for she had camped beside a stream. Muttering crossly to herself, she stuffed everything back in her satchel and stood again when she heard the sound of approaching hooves.
When the wolves had attacked Calain’s camp, Arthur had taken off a little way into the trees. Now the horse came back, slowly and apprehensively. Shaking her head, Calain went to him and patted his long face.
“Thou art craven at the best of times,” Calain teased the horse.
Arthur snorted indignantly.
“Really?” said a woman. “I thought he was quite brave – for a horse. He kicked one of the wolves in the face for you. Or didn’t you see?”
Calain whirled, her hand going at once to her sword hilt. But her eyes fell on the owner of the voice and she went still, her lip curling.
It was the dark witch who had abducted Zelda back at the forest outside Ternia. The leader of Raven’s Cross. The symbol – a black raven with wings spread to form a cross – was still upon her forehead. She was alone, draped in a long, tight-fitting black gown, her long, dark hair covered by a black cloak and hood. The gown bared her generous cleavage to the sunlight, milky white and swollen breasts large enough to rival Zelda’s. She looked at Calain in calm amusement with her dark, glittering eyes, her pretty face framed by curtains of black hair.
“You,” said Calain darkly. “Foul witch.”
The woman smiled under her hood. “A pleasure to see you as well, Calain, Knight of Falcon. I don’t believe we’ve ever been properly introduced. I am Melvalda, high priestess of Raven’s Cross.”
“And kidnapper of women,” said Calain roughly.
Melvalda pursed her lips in mock hurt. “I never kidnapped Zelda. She came with me willingly. She’s like a bitch in heat, that one. You’re running off all valiant to save her, but she’s fucking the bear queen as we speak.”
Calain tensed. “Cease your lies, snake!”
Melvalda only continued to smile. “Oh, lying, am I? You poor fool. She’s really got you around her finger. You really think she’s this innocent little dove, don’t you?” She waved her hand, conjuring a great bubble that hovered between them. Inside the bubble, scenes appeared: Zelda standing in a field of wildflowers, facing a giant barbarian woman, flowers in her golden hair; Zelda tying her hand to the barbarian woman’s big hand with white cord and smiling; Zelda drinking a potion with a shaking hand . . . Zelda in the barbarian woman’s lap, head falling back as the big woman suckled one of her breasts and fingered her beneath her dress of furs. . . Calain was shaking. She could feel it, the big woman’s fingers gliding hungry in her sex, the thrill of the woman’s lips on her nipple, the quickening of Zelda’s heart. It was real. She could feel it. It was real!
Melvalda waved a pale hand, and the bubble and its imagery vanished. “Did you see the potion Zelda drank?” she asked. “It will make her with child. Yrsa’s child.”
Still shaking, Calain turned her back. “You lie.”
“No. Zelda has married Ysra and is carrying her child.”
Calain stood with her back to the witch, suddenly blinded by tears. “She . . . She had no choice. She was forced to wed!”
“Are you crying, sweet knight?” said Melvalda softly, but there was no mockery in her voice.
Calain bowed her head, trembling all over. “Why have you shown me this?” she demanded through her teeth.
“Have you forgotten, sweet knight,” answered Melvalda, and now her voice took on a sarcastic sweetness, “that only two full moons ago, you massacred my coven and stole my newest recruit to boot? Did you think I would not seek compensation?”
“Compensation?” Calain repeated dully. She was suddenly too miserable to care about anything Melvalda was saying. She only knew that her heart was broken, and that the pain of it was unbearable. Just nights ago, Zelda had looked Calain in the eye and told her she loved her. Now she was married to another and having her child! Had it all been a lie?
“Zelda will have a child,” Melvalda said. “I have seen it, and it shall be mine. You will take Zelda from the barbarian queen, and you will bring her to me, here, beside this stream. I will never get my hands on the child inside her otherwise.”
“I will not help you!” Calain roared.
Melvalda was silent a long moment. Then she said quietly, “Very well. You will take Zelda from Yrsa—I know you will because she’s trained you quite aptly, her devote little dog – (Calain tensed) and I shall take Zelda from you. The child shall be mine.”
Calain whirled, intent on slicing Melvalda’s head off, but the witch had gone, having left Zelda’s stave in her place.