The White Wolf (Half-Breed Book 1) (19 page)

“Now Alastor, I don't believe your wife would appreciate that,” Conley mused.

“The poor dear passed in the spring. The fever was just too much for her,” Alastor said ruefully.

“My condolences,” Conley replied.

Alastor shook his head. “Never mind all that. Now is the time to feast. I promise you will have a dinner you'll never forget.”

The son of the Duke showed them to their seats. He resumed his position at the head of the table after everyone else had been seated. The food already adorned the table and each guest had a plate set in front of them. Alastor bid them to begin their feast, and no one objected. Varg loaded his plate with meats and breads until the pile threatened to fall over, then he ate every last piece and loaded his plate with seconds. Then he helped himself some apple pie, a delicacy he rarely got to eat.

Everyone ate in silence until Conley finally said, “Alastor, I know you already refused our request, but I must beg you to reconsider.”

Alastor sighed and placed his goblet on the table. “Conley, I understand that you want to keep Fellen safe. Believe me, nothing I want more is to look out for Fellen's best interests, but unless the King has proof of this cult, he will not act. If however, you can return with such proof, my father and I would be happy to reconsider.”

Conley hung his head in defeat, at which point Alastor added, “I promise that nothing will get in the way of Fellen's well-being. This kingdom will surely flourish for ages to come. Now then, a treat for my guests.”

One of the servants entered the room with a tray of fine goblets and a bottle of wine. Alastor stood and gestured to the servant as he placed the goblets on the table in front of each guest. “This wine is a rare and delicate drink, one that I wish to offer upon you, my guests, as a peace offering.”

The servant then poured wine into each goblet—except for Erril, who was given cider instead—and stopped before he got to Alastor. The son of the Duke shook his head politely. The servant bowed and didn't fill his master's glass, but instead quietly departed the room with the wine bottle in his hands.

Varg lifted the cup to his lips when noticed something strange. All it took was a whiff and Varg could smell something that was familiar, but unsettling. He lifted the goblet closer to his nose and sniffed more closely, and that was when he realized what it was. The wine was full of poison, and Varg bet his axe that the poison was the very same one the Shadow Hand cultists used on their weapons.

Milea noticed the cup near Varg's lips and whispered, “Varg, wait until he offers the toast.”

Varg's heart sank when he realized that he was the only one who seemed to notice the smell. He looked around the room and neither Conley, Erril, Oliva, Tain, or Milea had taken their first drinks, much to his relief. He knew he had to warn them somehow, but he didn't know how. Furthermore, he had no proof other than his sense of smell that anything was wrong. Varg hatched a plan, but the chances that it would work were slim to none.

Alastor stood and raised his goblet. “A toast to Lord Conley Rowan and his associates. Your bravery and loyalty is unmatched, and may your blades ever be sharp and your eyes sharper.”

Alastor lifted his goblet in the air, at which point everyone else lifted their cups to drink.

Varg panicked and shot up from his seat. “I have a toast to make.”

All eyes, including Alastor's dark suspicous eyes, pointed to him. The half-blood stammered and sweated, trying to think of what to say. In a last ditch effort to avoid the suspicious glares of the nobleman, Varg raised his goblet and said, “A toast . . . to Lord Alastor for his hospitality and consideration.”

His friends eyed him curiously, and Varg hoped they understood by his mannerisms that something was wrong. Then he continued, “I . . . I believe that we should show better gratitude to our host. After all, what kind of guests would we be if we drank such a wine before our host reserved the first taste?”

Alastor grew still and stiff despite his trying not to show it. The nobleman then calmly said, “Nonsense, you are my guests. Therefore, the first taste should be reserved to you.”

“But you are our lord, and it would be rude to drink without you,” Varg said.

“He's right,” Conley said, much to Varg's relief, “it would be rude to drink without our host.”

Alastor grew pale. “I have had enough to drink for the night. Please, I insist.”

“Surely you can afford a small taste?” Varg asked. He had him now.

“I must decline,” Alastor replied, a bit more forcefully this time. Apparently his tone was noticed by the others, for they exchanged confused glances with each other.

Varg simply smiled. “Is it because you know the wine is poisoned?”

Alastor's eyes widened in horror, but the slick noble covered up by laughing. “That's quite an accusation.”

“Not one I do lightly, either,” Varg answered. As his friends looked at him worriedly, he continued, “One whiff of this wine gave me all the answers I needed.”

“What are you talking about, I don't smell anything,” Conley said.

“Normally no one can smell this, but my nose is different,” Varg said. “This poison has a very unique smell, one I've only smelled from the weapons the cultists use. In other words, our friend Alastor here is under the influence of the Shadow Hand.”

“How dare you,” Alastor growled.

“Varg, are you sure about this?” Conley asked.

“Of course not,” Alastor interrupted. “I should hurl him into the dungeon myself.”

Varg didn't answer, but instead tossed the contents of his goblet onto Alastor's bare hand. The noble suddenly yelped in pain and held his hand from view. The room stilled with silent anticipation until Alastor's hand came into view again. The skin had turned red and bubbled, which was all the proof Varg needed for his comrades.

“By the gods,” Conley said.

“That poison is extremely rare and deadly,” Varg said. “It's no coincidence that you use the same one as the cultists, is it Alastor?”

A small, unsettling chuckle sounded from Alastor's lips. The noble composed himself despite his blistering hand, and smiled. “You caught me.”

Conley shook his head in disbelief. “Then it's true, you have allied with the Shadow Hand. Why, Alastor? Why would you do this?”

Alastor began to walk around the table. “The Serpent approached me about a year ago. He gave a few tempting offers in exchange for my cooperation with the Shadow Hand, but there was nothing he could give me I didn't already have. I have wealth, material pleasures,” he slowed behind Milea's chair and brushed her shoulder with his fingers, “not to mention . . .
personal
pleasures.”

Disgusted, Milea slapped Alastor's hand away and backed away from him. This only earned another laugh from the noble, who then continued, “That was when Jin came to his offer for power. Now, I already have the power to do as I please, but Jin proposed a scenario that would ensure a seat on the throne for me and far more than I could ever achieve on my own. In exchange, I am under oath to provide the Shadow Hand with unlimited resources and full access to Fellen's darkest corners where they can find the treasured item they seek that will lead them to the Dawn.”

“That's insane,” Conley spat.

Alastor ignored his comment. “Unfortunately, since your . . . associate discovered my silent method of dealing with meddlers, I will have to take more extreme measures.” The noble them grasped his hand again and shouted, “Guards!”

After the floor rattled with hurried footsteps, the door to the dining hall flew open and three guards darted inside with their weapons drawn, at which point Alastor showed them his hand and said, “These people tried to kill me with a very deadly poison, as I was unfortunate to discover. Arrest them immediately!”

“You underhanded, poor excuse for a warrior!” Conley bellowed as he drew his sword in response to the charging guards. The others readied for battle as soon as more guards came pouring into the room after hearing the commotion.

The guards began their charge and Varg readied Frost Fang for a swing. He struck the first guard before the poor bloke could land a single hit, and after he froze solid Varg charged in for another swing. After he disable yet another opponent, he turned to his comrades to offer them aid, but it seemed as though they were faring well enough without him.

Milea had only just loosed an arrow into her foe's shoulder before she was already nocking another. Conley had his sword in a defensive position while two guards assaulted the steel blade. Erril and Tain both had knives out to match the cultists' swift attacks, and Oliva nearly set the tapestries ablaze when he fire spell sent a burning cultist flying through the nearby window. None of them needed help at the moment, so Varg took the opportunity to pursue the reason for the ambush.

Varg faced Alastor and charged head on. The son of the Duke already had his great sword ready and met Varg's charge halfway and their blades collided with full force. Despite Varg's strength, Alastor parried and dodged every strike of his axe. Varg managed to keep up, but still wondered how a mere human could be so powerful.

Varg allowed Alastor to go on the offensive so that he could get a better look at his fighting style before striking again. The noble was very well trained, and it wouldn't surprise Varg if he'd served in the King's army. He was incredibly strong and quick despite the heavy armor he wore. The half-blood searched for fault in his opponents style or movements, but could find none. Alastor, it seemed, was a perfectly built warrior.

Varg was determined to match him. He swung again only for Frost Fang to be met once again by Alastor's black sword. What's more, Varg had a difficult time keeping up with Alastor's quick movements. The noble knew he had the advantage and was sure to make it known to Varg.

“Give up, wretch,” Alastor taunted.

Varg blocked his attack. “I never give up.”

“Then you will die here.” The son of the Duke swung again and Varg was unable to block in time. The black sword made it past the half-blood's defenses and struck him hard. Varg felt no pain with the initial blow, but as soon as the gushing blood dripped down his vest and trousers, the reality of what had occurred settled in.

Varg fell to his knees gripping his bleeding side. A sharp pain shot through his body like a bolt of lightning. Frost Fang tumbled from his grip onto the stone  floor. He couldn't hear or see anything, and he was sure time had stopped if Alastor hadn't finished him yet. He thought it was already over when he felt a pair of arms gently pull him up, but before his vision blackened, he saw a wall of smoke surrounding Alastor and imprisoning him while whatever or whoever held Varg made their escape.

Varg's blurred vision returned along with a warm, soothing mist that enveloped him. He saw an emerald light behind his heavy eyelids. He tried to open his eyes only to hear a familiar voice speak to him.

“Easy now, hold still.”

When Varg's eyes came into focus, he matched Milea's face with her soothing voice, and the warming light Varg felt came from a small orb in her hands. The half-elf held the healing light against Varg's wound and he watched in amazement as the skin and muscle resealed before his very eyes.

“What is that?” Varg uttered.

“A healing spell,” Milea answered. Then she added, “My mother taught me magic when I was young. I don't normally use it, but a potion wouldn't have healed your wound fast enough.”

“How did we escape?” Varg whispered.

Milea looked at him and said softly, “Alastor was about to finish you, but Erril threw a smoke bomb to distract him and Oliva used a shield spell to prevent the smoke from reaching us. I grabbed you and Conley helped me drag you out of the window. Once we were outside, we were surrounded by guards, but Oliva used her shield spell to protect us while we all ran for it.”

“You and Conley carried me?”

Milea laughed. “It wasn't easy, but yes. We were so determined to get you to out of there that your large stature didn't take it's toll on us until we made it to safety.”

Varg looked up to see a canopy of trees. He felt the rough bark of another tree against his back. He looked around and saw no familiar surroundings. He also realized that only he and Milea were present. “Where are we? Where are the others?”

“In the forest south of Eastwold,” Milea explained. “Conley is standing guard while Oliva uses a spell to lead the guards in another direction and Tain and Erril are off scouting the area. They should be back soon, but for now you need to focus on resting.”

Varg looked down at his wound and saw it was now barely more than a surface scratch. He found himself placing a weak hand on hers and said, “I think you've already taken care of that for me. Thank you.”

Milea shook her head. “It's the least I can do after you saved our hides back there. The light from Milea's spell faded, and then she said, “There, it's sealed up. There's going to be a scar, though.”

“I wouldn't be a warrior if I didn't have scars,” Varg said. He didn't let on that he meant it in more ways than one.

Milea smiled and looked away. “Just wait a few minutes before standing. You lost a lot of blood.”

Varg leaned upwards, coming within inches from Milea's face. When the half-elf turned back to face him, she too leaned closer and locked eyes with him. Milea gently placed her hand on Varg's chest, and he returned the gesture by brushing a strand of hair from her face. An all too familiar wave of heat erupted inside him, prompting him to lean closer. Milea rested her forehead against his and moved her mouth closer to his, but Varg barely felt the tender brush of her lips on his when a voice echoed through the wood and broke their trance.