A Forest of Wolves Read Free

beloved country.
    â€œThere it is.” Marc pointed through the trees. “Kladno.”
    Thatch-roofed houses were scattered along a winding dirt road, the street ending abruptly at a slanted, two-storied tavern. The small village bustled with activity—people farmed in the plots beside their homes, animals roamed the area around the barn, and residents heaved water from the well.
    Marc clicked his heels against the stallion’s sides.
    The group’s mood changed to one of excitement. Kladno was their home. Their base. Where they would feel safe from the Crown and the Catholic Church. My spirits lifted, too.
    â€œIs your father here?” I asked Marc.
    He nodded. “And my Uncle Igor.”
    I didn’t know much about Kladno, only that it was an outlying village and the area was well known for its coal and iron deposits. Now it was the local headquarters of the Protestant rebellion. As we descended on the settlement, people emerged from their homes to greet us. Smiles claimed their faces. The prodigal sons had returned. Villagers cheered and waved. Children ran alongside our horses. Our welcoming felt like a parade honoring Marc and Henrik.
    Marc, Henrik, and I rode toward a whitewashed house that sat back from the winding road. The abruptness of the quietness caught me off guard. The caravan of peasants who had joined us in Rika had dissipated into the village. Consumed by family and friends and gracious people.
    Without all the commotion, I was able to take in my surroundings. I rapidly came to the conclusion that Kladno was superstitious—all the houses were specifically protected from supernatural forces. Smears of blood covered thresholds over the doors. Garlic bulbs hung from the doorframes and nails over the windows. Crosses were planted in the yards.
    What were they so scared of? Ghosts? Vampires? What supernatural being could frighten them so much?
    Henrik dismounted and helped me down from the horse. “Do you need help, Brother?”
    â€œI can manage.” Marc winced as he slid off.
    â€œLet me see your back,” I said.
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œThen let me see it.” I spun him around and lifted his ragged shirt before he could stop me.
    The fabric was torn to shreds, but once I lifted the cloth and exposed Marc’s entire back, I couldn’t smother my gasp.
    When Marc had rescued me from Prague Castle in the middle of the night, I hadn’t had the chance to see the extent of his injuries. Now, in the early morning light, the wounds were visible in all their horrifying glory. Multiple lashes crisscrossed the broad plane of his muscular back, creating a canvas of scars and welts. Bloodstains decorated his ripped flesh.
    Marc pulled down his tattered shirt. “That’s enough for now. I want you to meet my father.”
    I bit back my retort.
    We followed Henrik to the house, but before he reached the threshold an older man shoved through the front door. The act caught Henrik off guard and he stumbled backward.
    The man had thick dark hair—the same color as Marc’s—with a shock of gray at his temples. He also had Henrik’s slightly crooked nose. His weathered face crinkled as he smiled from ear to ear.
    He had to be Mr. Sýkora.
    â€œBoys!” He grinned, and lines exploded in the corners of his eyes. The older Sýkora embraced Henrik and Marc in a bone-crushing hug.
    When Mr. Sýkora pulled away, he looked down at his hand, stained red from the blood on Marc’s back. He inspected his middle son’s wounds without a word.
    When he had finished, he sighed. “Bastards. I heard they put you in Daliborka.”
    â€œI’m all right, Dad.”
    â€œI broke him out.” Henrik winked.
    Marc placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “I want you to meet someone. This is Lady Ludmila Nováková.”
    I curtsied.
    â€œMila, this is my father, Petr Sýkora.”
    â€œPleased to meet