He could smell freedom.
But that vestige of hope would prove to be his downfall. His focus was on the door and not where it should be– in the shadows around it.
The wolves pounced.
*
“He is recklessand mean,” a big, blond man hissed to a collection of battled-scarred knights. “You know what happens when he fights; he has no restraint and no regard. If we are not careful, someone is going to come away missing an eye. No offense, Papa, but none of us want to end up like you, courtesy of our baby brother.”
Scott de Wolfe was looking at his father, William, who had, in fact, lost an eye over forty years ago in a battle in Wales. Elderly, but still strong, competent, and intelligent, the legendary William de Wolfe shook his head at his eldest son.
“If you lose an eye to your brother, I will be ashamed of you,” he said. “At least I lost mine in battle. You would be losing yours in a fist fight. That does not say much for your skills.”
It was a serious situation they were all facing, but one with an odd undercurrent of humor. Ridiculousness, really. Thomas de Wolfe was running from his destiny like a child running from a physic’s potion, but it was a concerning situation, nonetheless.
The youngest de Wolfe brother had grown up, matured, and become one of the fiercest knights England had ever seen. Not simply the borders– but in England as a whole. As a youth, he’d been reckless and silly, but blindingly brilliant. He was innovative and cunning, outsmarting his parents on more than one occasion. As a young man, he’d been dutiful but resentful of living in the shadows of his elder, and greater, brothers.
A young man with something to prove.
But then came the fateful trip to Wales to escort his youngest sister to her new husband, a man who also had a sister Thomas had fallen for. It was something they didn’t really speak of any longer, mostly because it was in the past and wasn’t something to be fondly recalled. It had been a moment in time that had shaped Thomas’ entire life and he’d returned from Wales a different man.
Changed.
His father, William, had known he’d had to do something for his distressed son and that help had come in the form of a mission of mercy, of sorts. Kevin Hage, son of William’s dearest friend, Kieran, was determined to go to The Levant to fight with the Christian armies against a new wave of Mamluks to escape the woman he’d lost. It had been the very sister Thomas had escorted to Wales, in fact, who had broken Kevin’s heart, and Kieran Hage himself had begged Thomas to go with his son.
In truth, Thomas and Kevin had shared the loss of the women they had loved, one to death and one to another man, and in that sense, they were kindred spirits. They both needed to get away, to find a life for themselves that did not include their women. So, they had gone to The Levant and they’d learned warfare on an entirely different level, learning to fight against an enemy that was not English or Scottish or even Welsh, an enemy who hated them on a level they’d never seen before.
They had learned to be killers.
In fact, Kevin had learned that lesson so deeply that he’d become an English assassin known as the Scorpion, the knight with the deadly sting. Thomas, too, had learned the lesson so well that it had become ingrained into him, a man who thought like a hunter and hunted like a killer, who struck as fast as a bolt of lightning.Dhiib aleasifa, the Mamluks called him.
StormWolfe.
The hunter who brought the storms with him.
The Thomas who returned to England afterwards was not the same Thomas who had left them. Some thought that the time in The Levant might have done Thomas more harm than good, because the man who returned was a true hunter-killer in every sense of the phrase. He’d served the Duke of Dorset for a time after his return to England before heading home, where his father had given him command of Wark Castle. Scott had been correct when he’d said Thomas was mean; he could be quite mean when the mood struck him, and deadly in the blink of an eye.
Therefore, every man in that solar knew that Thomas would not be taken without a fight, which was why they were converging near the keep entry in a pack for safety. The postern gate from the keep that led into the kitchens had been barred and locked, so there was no chance he could go that way. Soldiers were covering the exterior in case he decided to drop from one of the windows, and one very capable knight was waiting in the stables in case he made it that far. Better still, the commander of Questing, James de Wolfe who was also known by Blayth, was standing just outside the entry door.
Every possible exit was covered, meaning Thomas was being driven to the entry where the majority would be waiting for him.
At the moment, however, they were simply anticipating his movements as best they could. He was somewhere in the keep, lurking. There was a small guard room, a solar, and then a main receiving chamber and a servant’s corridor that comprised the access points of the foyer. But at the moment, the knights were gathered in the solar, planning for the inevitable. Waiting.
A storm was about to roll through.
“Uncle Thomas will strike to injure,” a very tall, very large young man with big blue eyes and nearly black hair spoke. “I suggested the older knights wait here while the younger men attend to him. He will not escape us.”
He had an eloquent way of speaking, one that made everyone look to him. Markus de Wolfe was the eldest son of Patrick de Wolfe, and he had his father’s size and strength, but his manner was much as his grandfather’s had been at that age– supremely confident in all things. It was a confidence borne of youth, but at only nineteen years of age, he was already a full-fledged knight, which fed into that pride. He also happened to be the grandson of a Viking king, and he looked every inch the powerful Viking prince.
But his father, who was standing a few feet away, shook his head at his arrogant son. “And you think he will escapeus?” he said, incredulous. “Markus, either you think your uncles and I are going to collapse like brittle old women before your Uncle Thomas, or you are genuinely trying to protect us. I will choose to believe the latter because if it is the former, I will unleash your uncles, Troy and Scott, on you so that you can see just how weak they really are.”
Patrick was referring to his older brothers, the eldest sons of William de Wolfe, twins by birth. Scott and Troy de Wolfe were, even at their age, remarkable warriors and seasoned commanders, so the threat was not an idle one. They were still quite tough and quite deadly. Markus knew that; he looked to his uncles, who were gazing at him in varying degrees of displeasure. Realizing his boast wasn’t well met, he held up a quelling hand.
“I meant to say that it is good training for us to take Uncle Thomas ourselves,” he said, backtracking. “It is not often we get the chance to go up against someone of his caliber who is not trying to kill us.”
Over near the wide-mouthed hearth that was spitting out sparks into the stale solar air, William snorted at his grandson’s statement.
“What makes you think he will not try and kill you?” he said, eyeing the proud, young knight. “The moment you truly believe that is the moment he will take your legs out from under you and you’ll be lucky to come away with all of your teeth intact. He is desperate and he is angry, making for a volatile combination. So presume he will hurt you if he can, because he will. However, given that you believe this to be a challenge, then I suggest you take your cousins and go hide yourselves in the entry. If I know Thomas, he is looking for the right opportunity to make a break for that entry door. Make sure he does not reach it.”
