The Wisp and the Wolf (The Ellylldan Chronicles Book 1) by Jeanne Renee

Author:Jeanne Renee [Renee, Jeanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

The wind roars. Steadily gaining strength since midday, it whips my hair into a tangled mass and blows across my ears, filling me with its mournful howl until I feel certain that if I opened my mouth, I could hear the sea. We stay away from the rutted roads, picking our way along the riverbank instead. Steffan leads the way, while Madoc guards our backs. I try not to think about the unspoken implication of this and focus solely on putting one foot in front of the other. I will keep up or die trying.

We speak little. Even if there was something to say, the lack of food and sleep is taking its toll. As lengthening shadows change from deep green to charcoal, I stumble several times, exhausted and nauseous with hunger. Even Madoc’s jaunty whistle dwindles to silence. So, it’s no small token of grace that we do, in fact, reach Glyndyfrdwy just after nightfall. The icy wind kicks hard against our backs, carrying with it the threat of a storm as the compound comes into view. I gasp at the sight, and my breath tastes both of fear at what might come and relief at the prospect of shelter.

Seated on a hill and ablaze with torches, the great, many-storied manor house stands out against the stars like a beacon. From our position just inside the tree line, I see red-and-gold standards snapping back and forth like flames above the huge, spiked wall surrounding the estate.

“Make nay move for yer weapons, or ’tis all for naught,” Steffan says pointedly to Madoc.

Ignoring the advice, Madoc grips his dagger and glances over. “Best cover yerself.”

“Best not kill anyone,” I say through cracked lips, already making sure I’m well hidden under the cloak.

“I shall try.” Madoc’s voice is completely unironic.

At Steffan’s signal, we walk into the open, arms loose at our sides. My heart thumps in my ears as the front gates loom closer and closer. Between the waxing moon and the firelight, we’re easy to see—and shoot—if we’re being watched. And from the look of the perches on either side of the entrance, we most certainly are.

As if in answer to the thought, a voice hails us from atop the bulwark. We stop. With exaggerated slowness, Steffan cups his hands around his mouth and shouts above the wind. I try to read his expression for signs of danger but should know better. Steffan’s face remains impassive, his hands loose and open until a booming voice cut through the wind like a foghorn.

Madoc and Steffan tense.

Shit, shit, shit, my brain chants unhelpfully.

Madoc pulls his knife, and my stomach drops when a small door inside the massive gate cracks open. Steffan’s arms fall to his sides, deadly still. Afraid I might vomit from the anxiety at any moment, I relax a fraction when a lone figure appears.

Then I notice the battle axe in his hand, and my blood goes cold with dread.

Taller and wider than either of my companions, the man crosses the moat’s bridge with the ambling confidence of a bear.

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