Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (best books to read for beginners .TXT) 📗

horrid wolf-form – gaped up at us with bulging eyes. Others also turned toward us, while the other men in the hayloft ran at me.

I kicked at my captor’s shin and he groaned, clutching his knee. I grabbed a pitchfork set against the wall and turned it on another man as he rushed at me, thrusting its tines at him twice. He backed away and lost his balance, falling from the loft onto the crowd below. The other two paused before continuing toward me. I couldn’t fend them both off at once.

I turned back toward the hay pile where I had hidden. I shoved at it with the pitchfork, forcing the heavy pile out the loading door. I pushed myself out into the cool night air, the thick clumps of hay beneath me.

I landed hard on the cushion of hay and rolled onto the grass, my side aching from the impact. Thankfully, the previous night’s rain had softened the ground enough to ease my fall. I whistled for Crimson as angry shouts grew within the barn, and the cultists rushed toward the front door. Crimson galloped straight at me, as if the barn’s rising chaos helped him to sense my need. I stood and grabbed the horn of his saddle, letting his momentum propel me up onto him as the door flew open and the Lycanthru poured out.

I glanced back as we charged for the trees.

The men stood outside the barn, gulping down liquid from their flasks and removing their black robes. I barely glimpsed their naked bodies crouching low to the ground and changing like 258

Duke Laurent did. Becoming an army of enormous wolves that bounded after me with nerve-rattling snarls.

We raced deep into the forest. I drove Crimson harder, pounding past dark pine trees. The welcome cover of branches and leaves gave little comfort, since the Lycanthru wolves would know the terrain as well as I did.

Hearing sharp growls, I turned to see three wolves closing in. I leaned against Crimson, having no way to fire the repeating crossbow with one hand while riding. Instead, I drew my father’s crossbow, already cocked. Slow and steady, keeping a sure grip as we galloped on.

I took aim at the tan wolf nearing Crimson’s heels and fired, praying I was right about the silver.

The bolt struck his flank, behind his head.

A clumsy shot.

Yet he fell to the ground with wide-eyed surprise. The other two wolves scrambled past him. One glanced back at the dead wolf twice, seeming confused that the creature didn’t rise.

So much for my doubts.

I had just killed a man. A man who could transform himself into a wolf. My fist clenched the reins tighter.

The other two wolves quickened their pace.

I leaned forward in the saddle to draw another bolt from my satchel bag. I loaded it and carefully lowered the crossbow’s strap to my right stirrup, my body in rhythm with Crimson’s stride. After looping the strap under my boot, I yanked up on it 259

to cock the bow. I turned as a wolf opened its jaws to nip at Crimson’s hind leg. I fired straight into its skull and it slumped to the ground.

The third wolf watched its companion collapse, and his rushing gait faltered for a moment. I re-loaded and cocked the crossbow as I glimpsed more wolves, perhaps eight of them, approaching from the distant fog behind me. I shot the third wolf in his neck and he spun to the mud.

They would reach me in less than a minute.

I could never hold them off with my few remaining bolts.

I pushed Crimson harder, clinging to him as we surged forward, heading for who-knew-where. I had to find an escape, somewhere.

Anywhere. Anywhere to hide from these beasts that were once men!

Father Vestille was right about how dangerous the Lycanthru were, just as Pierre was right about my hood, now a bright red flag drawing the wolves straight toward me.

A sudden inspiration struck me. I slid Papa’s crossbow back into place behind the saddle and grabbed the repeating crossbow, slinging its strap over my shoulder.