8
Mermaids and Militiamen
Drew looked around. A pall of pipe smoke filled the air of the Mermaid Inn, gathering in swirling clouds above the patrons’ heads. Chairs and tables were situated haphazardly throughout the room, occupied by townsfolk intent on drinking, gambling and in some quarters arguing. A huge open fireplace occupied the west wall, the tattered armchairs that sat before it clearly prized by the two old men who sat in them, drawn close to the flames for extra warmth. A circular bar filled the centre of the room, where a huge middle-aged man with an expansive belly was busy filling pint pots. He looked up as the three travellers walked in, but for the most part they appeared to enter unnoticed.
Hector made his way straight to the bar, the others at his shoulder, and held a hand out to attract the innkeeper’s attention. The man finished serving the ale, dropped the copper pieces into his apron, then sidled across to the young man.
‘How can I help you, young sir?’ he asked.
‘Two rooms for the night please,’ said Hector, flashing a bronze coin in the palm of his hand. ‘One for two gentlemen and one for a lady.’
‘’Fraid we ain’t got no separate rooms; just the one left tonight, sir, a twin one. But I can see about rolling out a cot on the floor if it suits?’
Hector looked over his shoulder, and Gretchen nodded wearily.
‘That will be fine, thank you,’ he replied. ‘Are you still serving meals? My companions and I have been on the road for some time now and I’m sure we’d all benefit from something hot in our bellies.’
‘The missus might have stew left. I can rustle up a few bowls and some bread and butter, how’s that?’
‘What kind of stew is it?’ asked Hector.
‘Pork and vegetable.’
The Boarlord blanched. ‘Just two bowls and a few extra rounds of bread, if you’d be so kind.’
‘May I take a bath, innkeeper?’ asked Gretchen, only a hint of her previous haughtiness audible in her voice.
‘In the morning, sure,’ he said gruffly. ‘Won’t be heating any water until tomorrow, missy, I’m afraid.’ He handed a key to Hector, gesturing upstairs with his thumb. ‘Room six.’
Drew could see Gretchen bristle at being referred to in such a way, but she forced her best smile by way of response.
‘Then I shall bathe in the morning,’ she said, before turning to her companions. She held out her filthy dress from under her cloak. ‘Gentlemen, I’m going to retire to our quarters to clean up – I’d appreciate it if you could resist the temptation to disturb me for the next hour while I see if I can wring the Redwine out of my frock.’
Both Hector and Drew nodded vigorously. She took the room key from her cousin and the innkeeper passed her a flickering candle in a ceramic holder.
‘Your stew?’ asked Drew.
‘Bring it up later,’ she said in a quieter voice. ‘I don’t intend to spend another minute down here with this rabble of marshmen and bogtrotters.’ With that she turned and made her way back to the door, heading for the external stairs.
‘She’s really mellowing,’ said Drew. ‘I’m liking the new Gretchen.’
Hector smiled. ‘I know, this is hardly what she’s used to, is it? She’ll be all right. With a good night’s sleep she’ll be on finer form in the morning, you just mark my words.’
The two youths found a table with high-backed wooden benches affording them a bit more privacy. As the innkeeper brought over two bowls of stew and a plate of bread and butter, Drew scanned the dingy room in more detail. Hector pushed one of the bowls away, a look of disgust at the stewed swine showing on his face.
For the most part the locals appeared to be fishermen and farmers, judging by their clothing and the subjects of conversation Drew overheard. The innkeeper seemed a popular, if somewhat gruff, fellow, who knew all of his regulars’ names. All the while the big man kept an eye on his two visitors, glancing over intermittently to see how they were getting on. Drew kept his head down, trying not to attract unwanted attention.
‘Have I really got her so wrong, Hector?’ asked Drew.
‘What?’
‘Gretchen,’ he replied. ‘I see her with you, with other people, and she’s fine, pleasant, charming even. Leave her with me for one moment and she’s ready to swing for me in no time at all.’
Hector swallowed down a hunk of buttered bread.
‘She’s … complex,’ said the Boarlord. ‘You have to remember she’s been groomed for this role throughout her childhood and adolescence. This is all she knows. She’s used to barking out orders and expecting people to follow them, telling a joke and seeing everyone fall about laughing. She meets you and … well, you might as well be from another world. You don’t conform to her views and you’re not likely to either.’ He bumped two crusts of bread together. ‘You clash.’
‘She can’t be all bad,’ said Drew, tasting the stew.
‘Oh, she’s not,’ said Hector. ‘You just have to know how to handle her. I’ve had practice, I guess, but after recent events I’m not sure you’ll ever win her over.’
A small group of people made their way from the bar, and Drew caught sight of a sword hanging in its scabbard from one man’s hip. As the crowd moved away, he saw that four men, all armed, sat at the bar drinking and smoking. They hadn’t noticed the soldiers when they’d walked in, and it appeared the men were unaware of their presence. They were a rough-looking foursome, and the locals were clearly giving them a wide berth. Drew nudged Hector, nodding in the direction of the men-at-arms as the Boarlord scraped a huge slab of butter on to a hunk of bread.
‘Militia, by the looks of it,’ said Hector. ‘They’re not wearing army issue clothing, but they’re certainly soldiers. Probably the town guard, by the looks of it.’
‘Should we be worried?’ asked Drew.
‘No, I don’t think so. Don’t stare at them, eat your meal and we’ll head off to the room. Let’s not go looking for trouble, eh?’
Drew relaxed, confident that his friend was able to read the situation better than he. If Hector saw no danger, that was good enough for Drew. He calmed and set about polishing off his stew, stopping only briefly to apologize for tucking into one of Hector’s distant relatives. The other managed a half-hearted smile back before taking another big bite out of his stale loaf of bread.
From the bench that backed on to his own, Drew could overhear a conversation that captured his attention like a moth to a flame.
‘It’s like I told you,’ said the voice, ‘the Werewolf is back.’
Drew nearly choked on his stew, reaching for his goblet of mild ale to wash it down. The voice continued.
‘My cousin Farr in High Sankey said that there were soldiers in their town asking questions. Serious like, even roughing some people up. They say the Werewolf has returned.’
‘I hear it’s old Wergar’s ghost,’ said another, ‘back for revenge. He’s brought an army of dead Wolfguard with him too and he’s going to march on Highcliff to take back his throne.’
‘Don’t talk such rubbish,’ chimed in another voice. ‘The Wolf is as dead as my mother, may Old Brenn bless her soul. They’re old wives’ tales, nowt more.’
‘I don’t care what you say,’ said the first man. ‘I hear the king is looking for the Wolf. Make of that what you will. My cousin ain’t no liar!’
Hector was listening in now as well, also keenly aware that the same conversation was going on elsewhere around the inn. The gossip was spreading like wildfire, but it was clearly just hearsay at the moment from a group of uninformed villagers. Only the two young men knew the truth behind the story. Nevertheless Hector could see Drew visibly shrinking in his seat.
They could hear raised voices at the bar as one old fellow slammed his tankard on to the counter.
‘It’s not before time, I says! We need Wergar back, and if it’s his ghost that’s comin’ then it has my blessing!’ he jeered, taking a swig of his ale. The innkeeper leaned towards the old time
r, acutely aware that militiamen stood down the bar. They too were now listening in to the old man’s tirade.
‘Quiet now, Ebert,’ said the burly barman. ‘Mind your mouth or you’ll land yourself in trouble.’ But the old man was having none of it. He had things to say, and the alcohol he’d downed was only fuelling it. He was a wiry fellow, with straggly white hair that was scraped across his balding head.
‘You quiet yourself, Jonas,’ he wailed. ‘That Lion has done nothing but bring misery to this town. Higher taxes and for what in return? He sends his hired help here to keep us in our place, taking our crops and catches whenever their will takes them. There’s a store full of our grain out there that we’ll never get to see!’
‘Ebert,’ warned the innkeeper, clearly concerned as the militiamen rose from their stools on the other side of the bar.
‘They ain’t even soldiers,’ said Ebert woozily, ‘just robbing mercenaries out for a quick coin. I fought in the Wolf’s army – I know what it means to be a man of honour. These villains would fill their britches if they ever came across a real soldier.’
‘So you’d be a real soldier, then, old man?’ said one of the militiamen as the other three surrounded Ebert. Those sitting nearby moved clear, an uncomfortable silence settling around the room. The townsfolk, honest labourers every one of them, exchanged worried glances as the four armed men circled one of their own. The drunk old man hardly seemed to register their presence.
‘Don’t mind him,’ said Jonas. ‘He gets like this when he’s had too much ale. Pay him no attention; he doesn’t know what he’s saying.’
One of the guards raised a hand to silence the barman, who instantly stopped talking, twining his hand towel between his fingers nervously. The leader of the men was obvious, a sergeant’s insignia on his right shoulder marking his rank apart from the others. He was bald, with a drooping black moustache that ran right down to his chin. Broken yellowed teeth splintered into a tobacco-stained smile as he patted Ebert on the back.
‘He knows perfectly well what he’s saying,’ said the sergeant. ‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little rabble-rouser here, eh, lads?’ The others laughed in agreement. ‘Any of you peasants agree with what this old boy has to say?’ he barked, looking around the room. Each and every face turned away, avoiding eye contact, as the sergeant scanned the room for any more disgruntled locals. Many in the room wanted to step in, help poor Ebert out in his moment of need, but the militia would make their lives miserable.
Ebert said something under his breath, barely audible.
‘What’s that, old fella?’ said the sergeant, clipping him round the ear. It was enough to send the old man bouncing into one of the other soldiers, who promptly shoved him into another. The soldiers jostled the drunk man between them, until he stumbled into a stool, holding on desperately for balance. Jonas raised a hand, wanting to reach out across the bar to grab Ebert’s sleeve, but one of the guards snarled at him, daring him to make his move. He brought his hand tentatively back and watched on, miserable. The sergeant kicked the stool legs away, sending seat and man crashing to the floor. The soldiers laughed heartily, one even congratulating the officer with a clap on the back.
Ebert looked up from where he lay on the ground, blood streaming from a deep cut on his head. ‘You’re bullying scum, the lot of you!’ he spat. ‘You’re not fit to wear a tabard. Look!’ he cried to everyone in the bar. ‘Look at the Lion’s men! Look at our noble king’s army!’
Jonas was shaking his head fretfully behind the bar. ‘Please,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Let him be!’
The sergeant turned to him, scowling. ‘He has dishonoured me and defamed the king. I’ll punish this fool as I see fit. All of you – outside!’
9
The Wolf Revealed
The sergeant strode out of the inn, followed by the other soldiers, who dragged Ebert with them. A crowd of scared villagers led by Jonas gathered on the porch, the light of the inn spilling out behind them. Hector and Drew joined the crowd on one side, hearts thumping with a combination of anger and dread.
‘Let this be a lesson to you all, peasants,’ said the sergeant. ‘Any of you mongrels get ideas of spreading idle gossip about King Leopold, you’ll end up with more than a beating. I’ll have your heads on a pike!’ He rolled up his sleeves as his three men dragged the old man into the street. Ebert’s legs trailed in the mud behind him, his head slumped to his chest. Some of the locals tried to retreat into the inn to avoid the inevitable scene.
‘Get back!’ screamed the sergeant. ‘You all need to see this!’
With one soldier each taking an arm and the third grabbing the old man by his bloodied white hair, they held him in place as the sergeant stepped up, pulling his fist back.
Before he could strike a hand closed round his wrist.
‘I can’t let you do that,’ said a voice.
A chorus of murmurs went up from the crowd. What madman would endanger his life for the sake of poor Ebert? These soldiers were killers; there was no doubt about that. The sergeant craned his head round, a look of bewilderment upon his grizzly face. A boy in a dark green cloak was standing there, holding his fist in his own vice-like grip.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ snarled the soldier.
‘Stopping you from hurting this poor man and preventing you and your men from making bigger fools of yourselves than you already have,’ replied Drew, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. Inside his heart was pounding even faster than before, as if it were threatening to rip free from his chest. His stomach lurched, his head swam; fear gripped his every nerve, but he stood his ground. The crowd watched with a mixture of awe and anxiety. Who was this fool who would risk his life for one of them? Was he mad?
The sergeant struggled to pull his hand free, eventually tugging clear and spinning to face the boy. The other three soldiers dropped the old man face down in the mud, spreading out until the four of them faced off against Drew. The sergeant reached for his sword, pulling it out of its battered scabbard, his men following suit. Their blades were pitted and rusted, uncared for by the lazy militiamen.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ warned Drew. ‘Put your weapons away and return to your posts. Nobody needs to get hurt.’
Hector scrambled forward to roll the old man over, pulling his face free from a filthy puddle. He began to drag Ebert back towards the stoop of the inn, Jonas coming down from the steps to help him.
‘Nobody needs to get hurt?’ laughed the sergeant. ‘I have a pike in my tower that shall suit your pretty head,’ he said, stepping forward.
Drew swirled his cloak clear of his hip and in a flash the Wolfshead blade was out and held forward. There was a gasp from the crowd. Some recognized the blade from long ago. The soldiers saw it as well, two of them wavering for a moment until their sergeant urged them into action.
‘At him!’ he yelled. His men rushed forward, past their commander as he hung back to join the melee in his own good time.
Drawing on all that Gerard had taught him at Redmire, Drew met the first man with a simple feint, sidestepping him and sending him flying into the mud with a well-placed trip. The second was better prepared and their swords clashed with a clang. Two quick trades and Drew was able to slip around the soldier, bringing the flat of his sword down on to the man’s head with a dull crunch. He fell to the ground in a heap. Drew had left himself open, though, something Gerard had warned him against. The third soldier lunged in swiftly, a deft thrust finding its way into Drew’s back. Only the studded leather jerkin beneath his cloak prevented the blade from finding his flesh, but it was enough to send Drew cartwheeling forward.
Stumbling, he unhooked his cloak, throwing it clear towards the steps of the inn. The crowd watched on, hope rising among them. The sergeant and his remaining man closed in on Drew, while the soldier who was still conscious struggled to pull himself from the muddy ruts in the road.
Hector was watching on too, helpless to aid his friend. It was at moments l
ike these when he wished desperately for the control of his father. Although he was a Boarlord he’d never bothered to try to channel the ability, instead busying himself with medicine and magistry. While Vincent had dabbled in shape-shifting, it had been alien to the peaceful, book-loving Hector.
Drew had provoked this battle, and he knew it was his responsibility to finish it. But he couldn’t do it alone. As the soldiers approached, he began to change.
He seemed to gain six inches in height before the men’s eyes. His shoulders filled out; his arms seemed to thicken, muscles straining within his clothes. The dark hair that fell around his face became shaggier, more animal-like. He snarled at them, revealing sharp teeth that gnashed. And his eyes, bright gold, glowed from beneath a darkening brow.
‘It’s the Wolf!’ came a cry from the inn.
‘Wergar lives!’ shouted another, to a cheer.
‘It can’t be,’ gasped the sergeant, blinking in disbelief. Grabbing the soldier who stood to his side he hurled the man towards the Werewolf. The man roared a futile battle cry as he charged, sword dipped and tucked in both hands like a lance at his chest. Drew leapt forward, meeting him as he ran, striking him in the face with the pommelled fist of the Wolfshead blade. The man fell, unconscious in an instant. The soldier who had struggled to raise himself from the mud now staggered towards the monster before him. Drew turned to roar at him and the man collapsed beside his comrade in a dead faint.
The sergeant darted forward, sword swinging down in a slashing blow.
But Drew was too fast, too aware. He thrust out his clawed hand, catching the man by the throat, lifting him high into the air in one clean motion. The soldier dropped his sword into the mud as he struggled for breath. The crowd went silent.
Drew pulled the sergeant close, his lupine teeth grating and hot breath and spittle showering the man’s face. ‘If you or your men harm ANY of these people ever again I shall personally return to this town and seek vengeance on each and every one of you.’ With superhuman strength he threw the soldier twenty feet down the street to land spread-eagled on a parked haywagon.
Rise of the Wolf Page 16
