‘Who are they?’ asked Drew, his lip curling with disgust.
‘The Lionguard,’ said the jailer, shaking his head with dismay. His deep voice was tinged with sadness.
‘Why don’t the City Watch do something?’ asked Drew. ‘How can they just stand there?’
‘That’s why,’ said the man, raising a finger to point towards the tavern. A further ten of the red-cloaked soldiers lounged against the wall of the building, watching on as their companions tore the stallholder’s business down. They laughed and stared gloatingly at the ineffective City Watch. Indeed, Drew could now see that the soldiers of the woodland realm looked angry and anxious, but they were grossly outnumbered.
‘But isn’t Duke Bergan the lord of Brackenholme? Why does he stand for this?’
‘Perhaps it’s not as easy as that, lad,’ muttered the bearded man, stepping back into the centre of the room and turning his back on the melee outdoors. ‘Who knows what stresses and strains King Leopold has put the Bearlord under?’
Drew remained at the window, glowering, anger rising within. He saw the soldiers swinging at the prone man on the floor, raining punches and kicks down on him as he lay helpless. He clenched his fist, struggling to control his rage. Where had these feelings come from? Were his father’s principles coming to the fore? Mack Ferran had never been a man to stand idly by as another was bullied or harmed.
‘Somebody should do something,’ hissed Drew. ‘This is so wrong.’ Frustrated by his inability to help, his thoughts returned to his own predicament. ‘I don’t know why I’m being held here,’ he said, turning from the barred window to face the jailer. ‘I helped your men get home last night, and your city rewarded me by taking me captive.’
‘I need to thank you for that, boy,’ said the man. ‘Master Hogan is gravely ill but he will recover, and that is in no small part down to you. His apprentice, Whitley, made a special effort to inform us of the part you played when the Wyldermen attacked.’
‘Then why am I being held prisoner?’ challenged Drew.
The other man reached behind his back to untuck a book from his belt. Drew recognized it immediately as the old scout’s journal.
‘This,’ said the man, planting a fat finger on the leather cover, ‘is the reason you’re being held. What can you tell me about the words within? Master Hogan describes that you were a beast when he found you, more monster than man. He writes that you have some kind of accelerated healing that enables you to recover at an unnatural rate. What’s the story, boy?’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ said Drew petulantly, folding his arms and looking sulkily towards the window. ‘If he is the only one who can free me, then I’ll speak only to Duke Bergan.’
‘Then speak on. You’re in his company,’ replied the heavyset man.
Drew’s head jerked back in surprise as he looked at the stranger with fresh eyes. Despite his rough appearance there was an aura about the man that inspired respect. Drew tried to recover himself.
‘M-my … Lord,’ he stammered, bowing awkwardly, not knowing what to say or what to do in the presence of nobility. It occurred to Drew that he’d been disrespecting the Bearlord moments earlier. ‘What I said, about the soldiers, and the Watch …’ he began.
Duke Bergan waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t bother with all that,’ he said. ‘We don’t have time. Besides which, I’m sorry to say you’re right, lad. Something should be done. But for now you have to listen to me carefully. Drew, isn’t it? It’s imperative that you tell me exactly who you are, do you understand? There are others in Brackenholme on their way to this very room who have far less benign intentions towards you. As hard as it may be for you to believe me, I’m your best hope. I need to know, who are you? What are you?’
Drew looked to the door anxiously. ‘Others?’ he asked. ‘Who? Who wants to see me?’
‘You’re wasting time, lad. Those soldiers? What you saw beyond that window pales in comparison to the behaviour of their masters. Tell me everything, and leave nothing out. Where did you get the Wolfshead blade? Where have you come from?’
Drew had to make a decision, and make it fast. Was he to trust this Duke Bergan? The manner in which Sergeant Harker, his men, Master Hogan and Whitley had spoken about him suggested he could. And, assuming the man before him was indeed who he claimed, what was there to lose? Taking a deep breath, Drew began to tell his tale to the Lord of Brackenholme.
He unloaded his last six months on the man, sparing no details. His peaceful life on the farm. He told of the attack by the beast, his mother’s death and his father’s reaction. Then his fearful flight into the Dyrewood, wounded and terrified. As quick as he could he described his time in the great forest, living wild, turning feral as autumn shifted into the icy grip of winter. He told of his encounters with Wyldermen, starvation and survival, his battle to control the animal urges within him. When he finally finished, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Duke Bergan reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, passing it over.
Drew wiped away the tears that streaked down his face, the square of cloth coming away wet and grimy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to cry.’
‘It’s all right,’ replied Bergan. ‘There’s nothing wrong with crying. You’re young, after all. But a word of advice: let those be the last tears you shed for the foreseeable future. As healthy an emotion as it is, it will be seen as a sign of weakness by your enemies.’
‘What enemies?’ asked Drew. ‘I have no enemies. I’m just a farm boy. I shouldn’t even be here. This is all a huge mistake; can’t you see that?’
‘None of this is a mistake, Drew. It’s fate that brought you to Brackenholme, lad, fate that brought you to me. Your life as a shepherd boy is over; you can’t go back to it. You have to realize that you’re different from normal men. You have a gift, like my own.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You’ll come to. I wish I could help you, show you how to master it, but there’s no time, and it’s time and patience that you need to control the beast within.’
‘The beast? That thing I was in the Dyrewood?’ asked Drew struggling to understand.
Bergan stared at him, and Drew could see sympathy in the big man’s eyes. ‘Look, we don’t have long for me to explain … Drew, you are a therianthrope, a shape-shifter. It’s got nothing to do with the Dyrewood; it’s who you are. You can acquire the shape and form of a beast, at will if you’ve trained hard and mastered it. There’s so much more to it than that, but we don’t have the time. He’ll be here shortly.’
Drew’s head thundered and his vision blurred. It was all too much for him. A therianthrope? He was a monster, just as he’d feared. Duke Bergan had mentioned that this ‘gift’ was like his own.
‘You’re a … shape-shifter too?’
‘Yes, my boy,’ replied Duke Bergan. ‘I’m a werebear, Drew, like my father was before me and his father before him. And whoever your father was, you’re just like him –’
‘I will never be like my father,’ Drew interrupted, his temper flaring at the thought. His stomach muscles twitched at the memory of the Wolfshead blade piercing flesh. He realized it was in fact easy to believe his father was more beast than man, after all.
Bergan stepped forward and looked Drew square in the eyes. He moved the boy’s shaggy hair from his face with one hand, then grabbed his jaw and turned it this way and that. There seemed to be a glimmer of recognition from the older man.
‘What is it?’ asked Drew, motionless in the man’s surprisingly gentle grip. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘You have the look of someone I knew a long time ago,’ said Bergan, chewing his lip. ‘But it can’t be. It’s impossible.’ Bergan looked at the door, nervous.
‘Who is coming?’ Drew asked.
The sound of the key turning in the lock interrupted them, then the door swung open and a procession of men walked into the room. At the front of them was Captain Harker, who gave his comman
der the briefest of nods as he entered. Behind him came a man whose youthful face seemed a year or two Drew’s junior. Younger though he clearly was, already he had the same height, physical perfection and strength as Trent, Drew thought. Groomed blond hair tumbled around his face, landing elegantly on his shoulders. He was strikingly handsome, almost ladylike in appearance and manner, and was like no one Drew had ever seen in his life. A red surcoat with a long honey-coloured cloak was fastened round his throat by a gold jewel-encrusted clasp in the shape of two animal paws. Drew spied Duke Bergan bow slowly as the boy looked around the cell with an expression of repulsion.
‘What a vile little room you’re keeping him in,’ said the young man. Two more figures entered behind: a crooked-looking man in a long black robe and a pasty-faced youth of a similar age to Drew. The man in black was the opposite in appearance to the golden boy. He was middle-aged, with leathery skin stretched too thin over his face, revealing every jut of his jaw and hollow of his cheekbones. His receding hairline left his straggly, greasy black hair to tumble down his back in oily ringlets. A thick black animal fur hemmed the top of his robe and his cuffs, further emphasizing the ghostly skull that was his face.
The youth at his side kept his head bowed, standing to the side of the man in black in a way that indicated he was in service to him. His master coughed, wheezing, and gave the boy a dig with an elbow. The youth reached into a satchel that was slung over his shoulder, withdrawing a vial of liquid that the other downed in one swift gulp before tossing the empty bottle back to him.
‘It’s very good of you to accommodate my prisoner like this, Bergan,’ said the boy with the golden hair.
‘Your Highness,’ replied Duke Bergan, rising from his bow, ‘your prisoner?’
Highness, thought Drew. Who was this?
‘You heard me right, Bergan,’ replied the other, settling his gaze on Drew. ‘I have orders directly from my father to bring this creature to Highcliff as and when he is … captured. We all know he’s been running riot in those wretched woods of yours; there have been sightings aplenty.’
‘Surely it would make more sense for us to question him here, Prince Lucas?’ asked Bergan. ‘The boy only arrived here last night and has scarcely had a moment to recuperate. Taking him on such a long journey to Highcliff so soon could severely harm his recovery.’
‘Recovery?’ laughed the prince. ‘If, as we believe, he is blessed like you and I, then what does he have to worry about?’
Quick as a flash the young prince whipped a slender dagger from within his cloak, slashing swift and sure at Drew and leaving a bright red bleeding cut across his cheek. The boy at the side of the man in black gasped, and both Bergan and Harker struggled to hide their own horror. Drew raised a hand to his cheek, gritting his teeth in pain and anger. Bergan flashed him a look that told him to stay his hand.
‘Was that entirely necessary?’ asked the Bearlord.
‘Stop your worrying, Bergan,’ the prince sneered. ‘He’ll be good as new in no time, mark my words. There’ll be nothing there in the morning.’
‘And if he is mortal? If he isn’t a Werelord?’
‘Then he’s scarred for life,’ replied Prince Lucas arrogantly. ‘But we all know that’s not the case. And please don’t bandy around the term “Werelord”. There’s nothing noble about this creature; anybody with an ounce of perception can see that. He’s borne from the Dyrewood, a freak, an anomaly. Still, my father will want to better inspect him and discover precisely what he is. Can’t have him running amok, flashing tooth and claw at every woodcutter he bumps into now, can we?’
‘I have to strongly protest, Lucas –’ started Duke Bergan.
The prince raised a warning finger to the Bearlord and shot him a chilling glare. ‘You forget your place, old Bear,’ he said. ‘Refer to me as Your Highness, or call me Prince by all means, but don’t dare to address me simply by name. Do we have an understanding?’
Bergan visibly bristled with discomfort but held his anger in place. ‘Yes, Your Highness. I apologize. But please, Prince Lucas, leave him with us for a further week while we unravel the boy’s origins.’
The prince stepped up to Drew and regarded him in much the same way as Drew had witnessed his father inspecting cattle. He snatched at Drew’s bloodied face roughly, turning him this way and that before releasing his grip.
‘What have you got out of him thus far, Bergan?’ he asked, all the while glaring at Drew with cold, cruel eyes. Drew averted his gaze and stared at his feet.
‘Nothing, as of yet,’ replied the Bearlord. ‘But I was hopeful we could start questioning him in the morning after a full day’s rest. That’s if he isn’t mute.’
‘Mute?’ snapped Lucas.
‘Possibly,’ lied the Bearlord. ‘We’re unsure currently; he hasn’t said a word since he got here.’ Drew saw Harker pass Bergan an almost imperceptible glance. ‘If he can speak, surely it’s better to gently cajole such delicate secrets from him. Just look at him – he’s almost feral!’
‘No,’ snipped the prince, turning and making for the door. ‘I return to Highcliff this afternoon and shall be taking him with me. Lord Vankaskan here will be able to extract whatever information the creature has on our way there. We’ll have him speaking in the common tongue in no time at all. Vankaskan is very … adept, at persuading folk to part with secrets – had you heard?’
The man in black smiled thinly at Duke Bergan before a cough rattled his skeletal frame. He brought his sleeve to his mouth to wipe thick dark bile across it.
‘I’m well aware of how the Rat King operates. Each of the five brothers has a reputation that spreads to the furthest corners of Lyssia’s Seven Realms. What a wonderful skill to have mastered,’ said Bergan sarcastically.
Vankaskan hissed at the bigger man, baring his yellow-stained teeth at the Bearlord. ‘Mind your mouth, Bergan, or I shall be asking questions of you, if you’d prefer?’
‘Stop bickering now, gentlemen,’ cut in Prince Lucas. Taking a pair of gloves from his belt he tugged them on, flexing his velvet fingers as he made for the door. He waved his hand towards Drew. ‘So, see to it that the boy is bound, secured and transported to my caravan. We depart this afternoon as agreed, yes?’ He turned to Duke Bergan, seeking a response.
Bergan bowed low and clicked his heels in the affirmative. ‘As you wish, Your Highness,’ he replied. ‘I shall make preparations immediately.’
‘Now,’ said the prince, turning back to the door. ‘Come walk with me back to your delightful treehouse home. I need to look over your ledgers one last time and we’ll be out of your red hair at last, I promise. I hope we can expect to see you in Highcliff for the wedding?’ he went on as he disappeared into the corridor.
‘Yes, Your Highness,’ confirmed Duke Bergan, following after him.
Vankaskan afforded Drew the briefest of smiles, widening his eyes with gleeful anticipation. ‘Rest while you can, boy,’ he said. ‘You and I have a long journey ahead of us. Come, Hector,’ he commanded, turning and disappearing out of the door, his young aide following hot on his heels.
Last to leave the room was Captain Harker. He shrugged his shoulders in a hopeless expression that spoke volumes to Drew. And with that he left the room, closing the door behind him and the lock clunked into place once more.
7
The Healer
Each bump that the wagon made over rut and ditch brought fresh new waves of pain to Drew’s already broken body. The wagon came to a juddering stop. His head swam with dizziness and his mouth was slick with the taste of blood and vomit. He looked down at the bonds that held his wrists and ankles together – lengths of silver twined rope that were knotted tightly in place, his hands behind the small of his back, his feet bound in place, legs buckled at the knee. A further rope attached both sets of bindings to one another behind his back, leaving him as helpless as a trussed pig destined for the fire.
The Ratlord had worked on him three times now since they’d left Bracken
holme. He’d been bundled out of the Garrison Tree unceremoniously and shoved headlong into the waiting wagon. Bergan, Harker and his men had been there to see them off and escort them from the city, and Drew had the briefest of moments to spy the old Bearlord as he watched on ashamedly, his head hung low. No sooner had the caravan of wagons left the outer palisade than Vankaskan had joined him in his mobile cell, stripping Drew bare and unpacking his various instruments of torture before setting to work.
Naked as he was, Drew could inspect the wounds and injuries with which Vankaskan had adorned his body. Protracted cuts marked each of his ribs, where the Ratlord had scored the flesh with his long knife. His back was ripped and tattered where he’d been whipped with the studded flail that his torturer had wielded so expertly. Bruises marked the length and breadth of his body.
Drew bit his bloodied lip, coughing, as he lay there on the floor of the wooden wagon. It occurred to him that he’d like to take the Wolfshead blade and drive it into Vankaskan’s heart. But that merely reminded him that the sword was gone. Even with the bitter memories it held of his father, it was the only thing he’d truly owned. Now it was probably being used for sword practice at Brackenholme by one of Harker’s men.
If he could be pleased about something, it was that throughout his ordeal he’d remained silent. One thing that the Ratlord had underestimated was Drew’s ability to withstand pain. Living wild in the Dyrewood had taught him great resilience. A tiny voice at the back of his mind kept telling him to endure, endure; that no matter what the man did to him he would heal, he would revive. And he had. Whatever magic it was that coursed through his veins, allowing his body to repair itself, Drew felt thankful for it. It left him with the satisfaction that the pain was temporary. He had no doubt, however, that the mental scars the Ratlord was dealing out were anything but.
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