Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Her eyes widened. “What—”
“Too many mercenaries. Too many warriors who aren’t buying a thing but watching everything. I saw a lad pointing to a page on a ledger a mercenary held and then pointing to people linking the names to the faces. Grab what’s left of your blankets.” He hurried to the cart to deposit his purchases and ready the horse.
Ingrid reached to grab the last two blankets when the jovial woman selling herbs was suddenly in front of her.
“Will you take a pouch of my finest herb mixture for one of those lovely blankets,” she asked with a smile, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “It will keep you safe. Hide who you are.”
Ingrid stared at her, too shocked to speak.
The woman tucked the pouch into Ingrid’s hand and took one blanket. “Keep it with you. It will not fail you.” She hurried back to her stall.
Raff returned, took Ingrid’s hand, rushed her to the cart and swung her up on the seat. He pulled himself up beside her, took the reins, and got the horse moving, not too fast so as not to draw attention to them.
Only once, as the market noise faded behind them and the trees once again began to thicken, did Ingrid glance over her shoulder. Her stall stood empty. Another thing she would lose, the joy of market day. She had worked so hard to make a place for herself, and now it was gone. Tears threatened her eyes and fear worried her heart. All that mattered was that she had Raff and together they would build a new life. She couldn’t lose him. It would break her heart.
Ingrid moved closer against Raff until she was pressed against him. His one hand remained curled tightly around the reins. His free hand moved to rest on her thigh to give it a reassuring squeeze as he looked at her.
“We don’t wait until morning. As soon as the village is asleep, we leave. We will do well. We will make it to my friend, and we will fear no more.”
He sounded so confident that she believed him, but she still gripped the bag of herbs tightly for extra courage.
She nodded. “Agreed.”
He squeezed her thigh again. “Just a few more hours, my love. Then we’ll be free of this.”
The hope of escape died fast with the whistle of an arrow through the bare trees.
Raff reacted instantly, urging their horse behind a thick outcropping of stone. More arrows followed, thudding into trunks and earth. Then came the warriors—six, maybe more—emerging like wraiths from the forest.
“Chafton’s men,” Raff spat, jumping off the seat and hurrying Ingrid off it. “You need to run and hide.”
“You need to run with me,” she urged. “You can’t fight six men alone.”
She was right. Besides, there could be more than six. And there were.
One dropped down from a tree nearly on top of them and Raff had just enough time to grab the axe he had purchased at market.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered Ingrid.
He fought like a storm unleashed, he wielded his axe with remarkable skill, but then it was always his weapon of choice. The scent of blood soon hung thick in the air. One dropped. Then another. But there were too many, coming too fast.
He heard Ingrid scream and turned his head as he swung his axe. Not one but two warriors had grabbed her. He turned to go to her, a mistake. A heavy strike caught him at the shoulder. Another slammed into his side. He went down on one knee, vision swimming. Still, he struck out blindly, refusing to yield.
Then came the blow to his head. Sharp.
Before darkness swallowed him whole, he caught sight of his wife being dragged away.
When Raff stirred, the forest was silent. Pain rippled through every part of him, and blood streaked his brow. He pushed himself upright with a groan, blinking against the dusk.
“Ingrid…” His voice cracked.
No sound of hoofbeats. No fallen enemies nearby. No sign of her at all.
He dragged himself to the crushed patch of earth where he had last seen and recalled the terror on his wife’s face as she fought those dragging her away. He heard her then, though only in his head. She had roared out his name.
“RAFF!”
He had failed her.
They had taken her.
But nothing would stop him from finding her and freeing her, and he knew there was only one person who could help him succeed.
The witch.
CHAPTER 18
The cart creaked into the village, its wheels dragging through the mud, the mare weary and spattered with flecks of dried blood. Heads turned. One by one, villagers stopped what they were doing to stare, and people emerged from cottages, eyes widening at the sight of Raff seated on the bench, blood streaking his face, shirt torn, his eyes burning with something wild and desperate.