Page 95 of Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Morgana’s hands circled the hilt of her dagger, and this time, as she descended the curved steps, she was silent.

Holding her breath, she saw again the red glow of a torch. Wolf crouched, ready and still. She trod lightly over the stone steps. The sound of the sea was closer now, a dull and constant roar. Rounding the final bend in the stairs, she witnessed her vision come to life.

Logan lay in a corner of a rotting cell, and his guard leaned against the wall, drinking mead and belching. A torch, mounted near a narrow window cut into the cliff face overlooking the sea, gave off an eerie flickering light. The air was thick with smoke and smelled of burning wood, stale mead, and urine.

Morgana’s blood boiled as she crouched. This was no place for a child. She only hoped she had the courage to kill the guard. Suddenly Logan saw her. He screamed, and the guard whirled, knocking over his cup. Mead sloshed onto the floor and splashed upon his filthy leggings. “What the bloody hell?” he growled, scrabbling for his sword. The wolf growled and the guard’s eyes shifted toward the animal. “Saints in heaven, what’s that?”

Wolf snarled louder, and the boy cried out.

“Holy Christ, ’tis the witch!” The guard’s face paled.

“Leave the child,” she ordered.

“Nay.” His hand was on the hilt of his sword, but as he drew back, Wolf lunged, jumping and snapping at the man’s throat. The guard screamed and fell, dropping his sword. His arms flayed uselessly at Wolf’s hide, and his face twisted in terror. “Get this beast of Satan off me!” he shrieked.

“Will you leave us alone?” she asked.

White fangs snapped at this throat.

“For the mercy of God, Lady Morgana—” he rasped, still trying to throw the wolf off him.

“Wolf! Back!” Morgana grabbed the man’s sword and held him at bay.

Tears streamed from the man’s eyes, and scratches bled at his throat. He shivered and sniveled, a weak coward who tortured a small boy. “Please do not curse me. I’ve got a wife, and we’ve a child on the way.”

“Yet you treat Garrick’s son this way?”

“’Tis but orders I was following, m’lady.”

“You disgust me! You are lucky I don’t chant a spell that would kill the very seed within you so that you would never again father a child.”

“No! Oh, m’lady—” he whined.

“Wolf, stand guard.” While the beast’s golden gaze remained fastened on the sentry, Morgana grabbed a length of rope and tied the man’s hands and feet so that he could not move.

“You’re not leaving me?”

“Aye. Alone in the dark, where you and God can talk things over. Since you won’t be needing this,” she added, picking up a bow and quiver filled with arrows, “I’ll be taking it along as well.”

“Just don’t curse me. Please be merciful.”

She paused, as if conjuring up some horror.

“Oh, please, m’lady, please,” he begged, tears streaming down his red-veined face. “Do not chant a wicked spell.”

“Very well,” she said, as if she actually had the knowledge and the desire to dabble in the black arts.

“You’ll send someone back for me…” he mumbled pitifully.

Morgana strapped the quiver and bow over her shoulder. “Pray hard, man. Maybe God will hear you.”

“Please, m’lady, have mercy,” he cried, but Morgana ignored the wretched mass that was one of Strahan’s men.

She walked quickly to the child, and her heart tore as Logan shrank away from her. Holding out her hand, she said, “I will take you to your father, Logan, for he is greatly worried about you.”

“Nay!” the boy cried.

“Do you not want to leave here?”