Free The Wolf King by Alice Borchardt

identity.
    “Phueeee,” the girl said.
    The Saxon turned to the girl and Arbeo. “Go.” He pointed back the way they had come.
    They both voiced objections.
    “The ladies may need my protection,” Arbeo said.
    “I’m not a
girl
, I’m Gilas,” the girl said. “And I need to know about Otho. If something’s happened to him, I must get another protector.”
    “Stop wrangling,” Regeane ordered. “You, Gilas, may stay. Arbeo, escort Barbara back to our camp.”
    Barbara smiled, took a very unhappy-looking Arbeo’s arm, and towed him away.
    “Gilas, you remain here,” Regeane said.
    “No, I want to see,” Gilas insisted stubbornly.
    “All right,” the Saxon said in a dangerous tone of voice. “But be silent. If you make one sound, I will drive you into the ground like a nail.”
    “I promise, I promise. I’ll be silent as a stone.” She jumped up and down.
    “All right, then shut up.”
    Matrona led the party, weaving in and out between the tents until she felt the almost-still air push against her face. “Here,” she said.
    The air was thick with wood smoke, human effluvia, cooking food, and the thick aroma of stagnant water from the lake. The Saxon declined to sniff. He decided he probably couldn’t smell his upper lip, but Regeane did.
    “Oh, my God,” she whispered to Matrona. “I’ve not encountered anything like this since Rome.”
    “You knew him as Otho there?” Matrona asked.
    “Yes. Living or dead, I can’t say, but he is here.”
    Gilas opened her mouth to ask what they were doing, but she caught the Saxon’s eye and closed it immediately. The Saxon lifted the sword quietly from his sheath. Regeane drew her ax, and Matrona pulled a nine-inch knife from her full sleeve.
    “The back!” the Saxon whispered.
    The rest nodded and moved as silently as possible. They approached the rear of the tent.
    Otho was still alive, though he was certain not for long. At this point he was almost beginning to wish the creature who’d captured him would kill him. His whole body was a furnace of pain. Knives driven through his wrists and ankles pinned him to his once spacious and comfortable bed. He’d been given no food in four days, and no water in the last two, but he still clung to life. He was gagged, but the gag was so soaked with blood from his lips and cheeks and occasional bouts of vomit from his belly that it no longer functioned. Still, that didn’t matter, because his mouth and throat were so swollen he could no longer utter a sound. Mercifully, he had begun to drift in and out of consciousness a few days ago.
    Yet he still clung to life. Otho was corrupt to the marrow of his bones. He had decided as a young man that money was the only thing worth having in life, and he’d sought wealth with a single-minded energy and diligence that totally surpassed the rather feeble and sporadic efforts of those who were drawn by a desire for other, more mundane forms of gratification, such as sex, drink, food, or the more complex considerations of love, family, professional or even artistic endeavor. In a surprisingly short time he’d found himself very, very rich. It wasn’t enough. Too much is not enough for any spirit motivated solely by avarice. In fact, adding to his bodily torments was the knowledge that his own greed had landed him in his present situation.
    When the stranger had come to his tent a few days ago, Otho had initially refused to see him, but the present of a heavy gold bracelet, an almost pure gold bracelet, changed his mind. He had agreed to admit the stranger and made the fatal choice. He took the stranger’s money, a lot of money, making the sums he’d extorted from Maeniel seem paltry by comparison. He had listened to the stranger’s accusations. He went to visit the king, repeating the stranger’s accusations into his ear.
    When he had returned to his tent in the king’s encampment, Otho had tried to dismiss the man, if indeed man it was. When the creature merely