Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) Read Online Free

had prevailed.
    Alfwald lay dead at his feet, while a few feet away, Aethelred wiped the blade of his seax on the cloak of the Northumbrian warrior he had just slain.
    The brothers’ gazes met and held.
    Aethelred’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “What took you so long?”
    Wulfhere answered with a cool smile of his own. “Vengeance tastes best when it is savored. It did us all good to wait.”
    He retrieved a handful of rushes from the floor and cleaned Alfwald’s blood off Shield Breaker. Then he sheathed the blade.
    It’s done.
    Two years of waiting, planning, and anticipation were finally over. He stood inside the Great Tower of Tamworth, with the men who opposed him dead at his feet.
    The fog of battle lust cleared from his vision, and he was aware that he had sustained a cut to his forearm—a blade had sliced right through his leather bracer. It was beginning to ache dully and, although not deep, would need attention.
    Werbode approached him. The warrior was breathing heavily, still recovering from the fight, and bleeding from a shallow shoulder wound. Nevertheless, he was grinning.
    “You did it, milord. Tamworth is yours.”
    Wulfhere returned his grin. “Aye, we did it.”
    The reality of matters was beginning to sink in. No longer would he have to hide in the woods like an outlaw. No longer would he live in tents and thatched hovels. He, the eldest surviving son of Penda of Mercia, now stood in his rightful place.
    Elfhere also approached him. The warrior’s face was splattered with blood, making his eyes look even bluer than usual. However, he appeared uninjured.
    “What do you want done with the rest of the Northumbrians?” he asked, motioning to the men who stirred on the floor behind him.
    Wulfhere’s gaze shifted to the injured men. One of them was pulling himself across the rushes on his belly, in an attempt to reach a discarded seax. Wulfhere frowned; he could not afford to be merciful.
    “Scour Tamworth for any Northumbrians who managed to escape the hall,” he ordered, “and kill any of Wada and Alfwald’s men who still breathe.”
    He turned to where a group of pale-faced slaves huddled against the far wall. “Clear the dead from the hall and tidy this place up,” he commanded them. “By noon, I want no sign the Northumbrians were ever here.”

Chapter Three
The Rightful King
     
     
    Wulfhere sank deep into the hot water and let out a long sigh.
    It was so long since he had taken a proper bath he had almost forgotten the sensual pleasure of it. The scent of lye soap—a smell that reminded him of his childhood—filled the alcove where he bathed. This small space had once been his mother’s, and before that, his sisters had slept here. These days, it housed a huge cast-iron tub that took slaves many trips to fill.
    The hot water soothed away the aches and pains of battle. He had rinsed the blood off his injured forearm, but no healer had yet looked at it. The wound ached, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
    Beyond the tapestry that shielded him from the rest of the hall, he could hear the sounds of industry: the clatter and thud of pots as the cooks began work on the noon meal and the sounds of sweeping and scrubbing as slaves washed the hall clean of blood.
    Smiling, Wulfhere closed his eyes and relaxed into the hot water. Moments later, a tremulous female voice interrupted him.
    “M’lord . . .”
    Wulfhere’s eyes snapped open, and he inclined his head to where a young woman had slipped into the chamber. He recognized her as the slave he had found with Wada. The girl was small and thin with a shock of golden hair. Unlike earlier this morning, she was now clothed, clad in a worn homespun tunic, girded at the waist.
    “What do you want?” he asked.
    “Your brother, Lord Aethelred, commanded me to attend you, m’lord,” she murmured. “He told me you wanted your back scrubbed.”
    Wulfhere smiled. “Did he? That was generous of him.”
    The girl stared at him, her