Page 6 of A Wolf's Bargain

As he spoke, she listened.

And as she listened, she began to form a plan.

Chapter 4

Cora

Epona let out a soft nicker as they made their way through the trees. There didn’t seem to be any paths to follow, and the pouring rain and thick mud had hidden any signs of human presence.

Something rustled in the bushes. With Bran’s stories of wild wolf-men fresh in her mind, Cora pulled the horse to a stop as she scanned the foliage for danger. For a moment, there was nothing but quiet. Then a little red fox ran in front of them, his bushy tail a bright beacon in the dimming daylight, and Cora laughed at herself, shaking her head at her fear. Bran was wrong. He had to be. Cillian Fane was a man and nothing but a man. Whatever he’d done to make people like poor Bran believe he was anything more—well, it was all rubbish and stories.

His men were only men. Men who’d benefited from the fear their reputations had brought them, no doubt. After all, poor villagers and stable hands knew little of the outside world and were quick to believe in magic and the like to explain what they didn’t understand. Cora told herself that the only wolves in these woods were the kind her father hunted every winter. Thin, mangy, mean things that went after sheep and whose pelts fetched a decent price at the market.

There was nothing else. There were no magical men who walked about in wolf skins here. They were men. Dangerous men, certainly. Men she’d have to convince of her worth to make her plan work.

But men all the same.

She repeated the words until they matched the beat of her horse's hooves in her mind. She continued to watch the trees but forced herself to ignore any other rustling sounds. If it were Fane or his men, she wouldn’t let their first impression of her be a trembling, fainting maiden who started at every noise.

It was difficult to navigate in the fading light. The few details she’d overheard from her father and his steward hadn’t been completely clear, but she finally spotted a bright spot in the distance—a fire.

The wolf-men’s encampment. It had to be. They’d been a few hours’ ride from her home the whole time! Anger burned in her heart. She remembered her father's attempt to help their people. He’d been so desperate, he’d asked for Fane’s help—offered to pay him, even—but the dirty criminal had refused!

Cora slowed her mount as she pulled in a deep breath to steady herself. She’d have to be calm. Controlled. If she wanted to earn Fane's respect, she couldn’t be an ordinary lord's daughter. She’d have to be someone else. Thoughts of Boudica, the warrior queen, straightened her in the saddle. She might not be a queen or a warrior, but she could be strong.

The firelight grew brighter as she approached. Cora gasped when two men seemed to materialize out of the shadows. They carried no torches but moved through the early evening gloom as though it were daylight. When one met her eyes, his own seemed far too bright in the low light.

“Ye must be lost, little lass,” one rumbled.

He was a large man with a thick neck and a full, dark beard. When he grinned, Cora noticed more than a few missing teeth. She sat up straight in the saddle and tilted her nose into the air. “I am not lost, Sir. I’m here to see Master Fane on urgent business.”

The other man, much thinner and frail-looking than his friend, laughed sharply. “Oh, business, is it? And just what kindof business might a beauty like yourself have with Old Fane? I might have a bit of business with you myself if that’s what you’re calling it!”

Cora scowled at the man’s insinuation but had no chance to respond before the first man reached over and walloped the other upside the head. “Mind your tongue, Thom. Know you were born in a gutter somewhere, but even you can tell the difference between a lady and a whore, can’t you?”

Cora looked back and forth between the two men. Vulgar as they were, these two were clearly the gatekeepers to Fane’s camp. She’d have to get through them to find him. She cleared her throat and waited until the two men looked up. “Good Sirs, please. I’m here to see Cillian Fane. Please take me to him.”

The men cackled, their laughter rough and grating like stone. The smaller one—Thom—grinned and said, “You’ll find no sirs here, lass. No highborn dandies for your manners. Only us beasties here.”

Cora thought again of Bran’s stories and allowed herself a moment of nervous fear before shoving it away. These were rough men—soldiers and criminals. Nothing more.

They only meant to frighten her, and if she flinched like a frightened rabbit, they’d assume their assumptions about her to be right.

She straightened her back, sat tall in the saddle, and looked them straight in the eyes. “Well, Sir, I am no beast. And I’ve traveled too far to be made a joke by wildling watchmen. Either take me to Cillian Fane or let me pass so I may find him myself.”

The smile the large guard gave her was strange, full of teeth and insolence. He bowed—too deep and meant as a jest—and said, “As you wish, my lady. But don’t say we didn’t warn you, aye?”

Cora stiffened, then asked, “What do you mean by that?”

The guard glanced up the hill toward the group of tents—the largest of which sat right in the center of the camp. “Fane don’t take kindly to strangers. Takes even less kindly to them what show up unannounced at nightfall. So we’ll take you to him as you ask, lady, but we make no promises about how he’ll receive you.”

The men cackled at their own humor before beckoning her deeper into the camp. Cora remained on her horse, thinking it wise to have any high ground she could manage, even if it was only the physical high ground of Epona. They passed dozens of men—more men than she’d expected. Dressed in rough-spun tunics and animal skins, they appeared just as wild as Bran’s stories. They gathered in groups around small fires hung with roasting meat and large pots of stew, but most looked like it’d been some time since their last decent meal.

The men watched her as she passed. Dozens of eyes seemed to track her every movement, and Cora forced herself to remain straight and tall in her saddle. She refused to meet their eyes. Instead, she fixed hers on the large tent ahead. A large fire roared in front of it, and it was clearly the focal point of the entire camp. Three times the size of any other tent, the rough fabric had seen better days. Large pelts covered thinner areas of cloth, and it was evident that the poles supporting the structure were freshly cut. It suggested that Fane hadn’t been there long and likely didn’t intend to stay long either.

She’d have to change that.

Shehadto.

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