Rise of the Wolf

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘That fellow is a charlatan, a troublemaker,’ said Mikkel, watching Vega as he sidled up to a trio of ladies-in-waiting. They immediately went giddy as he flattered and flirted with them. The count looked back just once before returning his attention to the girls. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Why would he tell us all that he has? What does he stand to lose? He has nothing, and we know how he feels about the king,’ said Manfred.

  ‘All the more reason to distrust what he says,’ argued Mikkel. ‘He could be fuelling us with ammunition where there is none, leading us in a merry dance that will get us all killed!’

  ‘We can’t stand idly by while they kill Drew, surely to Old Brenn?’ said his brother, looking to Bergan. ‘Friend, I have two hundred of my men camped north of the city. I could send word to them this very minute if need be. Have you not brought your own guard with you from Brackenholme?’

  Bergan raised his hand to silence the other, all too aware that their talk, no matter how secretive and hushed, had already attracted one unwanted guest this evening. Even now the Wereshark might be making his way to the king to turn them in.

  ‘I have,’ said Bergan, ‘Indeed, many of them are lodging in Highcliff this evening. But the bulk of them are camped some distance outside the city; they are not at hand. Nor do they match the number of the Lionguard, even combined with your troops, assuming I were willing to call upon them. It would be folly. It would mean certain death for all of them.’ The Bearlord was still thinking, still casting his mind back to the old campaigns. So many of those details had blurred with the passage of time: faces, names, comrades and enemies.

  ‘Then there is no hope,’ said Manfred. ‘There is none who can help us.’

  Bergan clenched his fist suddenly, raising it as if he were about to strike the table, then remembering himself immediately. He lowered it beneath the table, and patted Manfred’s leg, his eyes staring straight ahead across the room towards the rows of loyal Lionguard. He polished off the contents of his goblet, looking about the hall, smiling once more at the evening’s revellers. He caught the eye of King Leopold, who was looking down the table to the end where they sat. By his side crouched the lord chancellor, his cowl still raised, muttering and murmuring while the party raged all around him. Bergan bowed, and the two Werestags followed suit. The king nodded his head slightly, smiling, his distrustful eyes upon them. Maybe he already knew what they were thinking. Maybe he was putting a plan of his own in motion that would tie up further loose ends.

  ‘There is one who might be able to help,’ the Bearlord whispered to his friends as he rose from the table. He clapped the Werestags on their shoulders and paced away, his stride full of purpose, his head hatching a plan.

  5

  The Sword of Justice

  Gretchen stood on the castle balcony, alone with her thoughts. She watched the city of Highcliff coming to life below from her lofty vantage point. The sun rose in the eastern sky, casting dark, haunting mid-morning shadows over the length of High Square. A crowd had begun to gather before first light, mainly made up of citizens eager to see Drew put to death. All the while, Gretchen had been drawn back to the balcony to survey the proceedings, willing the crowd to dissipate but feeling crestfallen as it grew on each occasion. People made their way to the square to see if this was indeed the ghost of the Wolf or the son of Wergar, people who had known their old king from long ago and never feared him. For all the rabble-rousing of those who had clamoured for front seats, the masses who gathered behind seemed of a quite different mindset. They clearly didn’t share the carnival atmosphere that their more ignorant neighbours were creating. Gretchen was under no illusions as to the generosity of King Leopold. Yes, they were at peace, there was no war, but the taxes increased each year and the poor grew poorer.

  There was a time when the people of Highcliff looked upon the soldiers of the king as their army, their men, manned by brothers, fathers and sons. Soldiers of Earl Gaston’s army in Hedgemoor used to frequently join the Lionguard, but that was a thing of the past. Times had changed. The king’s elite protectors held no such connection to the good folk of Highcliff or indeed anywhere else in the Seven Realms. It was intentionally assembled from men-at-arms from the world over. Some of the old Wolfguard and their sons had joined their ranks, but they were few and far between. Before his death, Gretchen’s father would tell her that in Wergar’s time there was an openness between king, army and civilians. This understanding had been all but forgotten in the last fifteen years with the rise of the Lion.

  Gretchen had a lot to thank her late father for. He had taken it upon himself, with his daughter being his only heir, to school her in the politics of Lyssia, and she’d dutifully paid attention. She was all too aware that people dismissed her as being a frivolous, haughty, spoiled young woman, and for the most part this had never bothered her. She knew when the time came and she had to step up to her responsibilities that she would do so effortlessly, remembering all her tutelage and training. She would face ignorance, chauvinism and belittlement from others, but those who dared to challenge her were underestimating the Werefox at their peril. If her time came as queen, she would do what was best for the people of Hedgemoor, what was best for the people of the Seven Realms. Enduring Prince Lucas was tolerable if it meant she could fulfil that dream.

  She’d heard the stories about the soldiers of the king, but up until very recently had chosen to ignore them as rumour and nothing more. Yet her time in the company of Drew and Hector had opened her eyes to what was really going on within Highcliff, and how far-reaching the implications were. She was also aware of the unpleasant rumours about her father’s death in the king’s court. Having a gaggle of gossiping ladies-in-waiting provided her with titbits of information on many an occasion, even when they thought their whispers were out of her earshot. If the king had been responsible for her father’s death she was left wondering who her real allies were. Duke Bergan and Hector were the only two she truly trusted. Them and Drew.

  In a matter of hours Drew would be dead, and she would be married to Prince Lucas. She could aspire to have some influence on the people’s affairs, but for herself she sensed only a life of sadness and misery ahead.

  Within the courtyard of Highcliff Keep she could see the very best of the Lionguard regimentally marching through their drills, alert and attentive to their captain’s orders. Beyond the walls the remainder of the Lionguard – far less recognizable as a respectable fighting unit – managed the city’s crowds. Some of the old soldiers and campaigners from Wergar’s army had remained, but they were fossils and out of step with the new blood. Mercenaries and swords-for-hire made up the bulk of their number, and they oversaw the people of Lyssia with an iron fist. The few uprisings that had occurred in recent years had been quickly and ruthlessly quelled, stories about how the king’s justice had been dealt floating away as silently as dead bodies down the Redwine. There was unrest in Westland, and now Gretchen knew why. The rumours, everything she’d heard, everything she’d chosen to ignore – they were all true.

  Her ladies-in-waiting called her from within her bedchamber. It was time to make her way to the pavilion in the royal enclosure. Gretchen clutched the stone balustrade of the balcony, suddenly gripped by a dreadful fear that she might fling herself from it. Taking a deep breath, she watched the people below. They were going to be her people one day, and she had to hold on to that sliver of hope that when all the horrors of the morning had played out she might be able to do some good, no matter how small. They would depend on her. For the most part the people of Highcliff loved their families, they loved their city and they loved their country more than any king or queen could wish or hope. And many of them had long, long memories of times of old, before a Lion sat on the throne.

  Drew looked up at the mid-morning sun as it rolled by overhead, wincing under its unforgiving glare. The wheels of the open horse-drawn cart groaned as they rattled over the giant timbers of the drawbridge from Highcliff Castle. Dr
ew struggled to remain upright from where he knelt in its centre, hands bound behind his back by a rope laced with silver thread.

  Lines of townsfolk thronged the path as the procession made its way to the scaffold, the Lionguard forming a cordon along the route, keeping the crowd back with pikes and swords drawn. A deathly quiet had fallen over the city, which hours earlier had been hard to imagine. At sunrise the sound of bells ringing had heralded this great and momentous day, drawing people up from their beds at an ungodly hour to gather obediently in the High Square. Word was firmly out as to what the king’s intentions were. The crowd had gathered to see the demise of the last in line of the Wolves, at the hands of the Lion himself. Stalls had been set up by quick-thinking traders, some offering food and drink, but others trying to sell crude drawings of slain wolves etched on to slates and parchments. Drew smiled grimly at the entrepreneurs; business seemed slow for them.

  An open scaffold took centre stage in the square, a raised platform proudly displaying a large slab of stone: the executioner’s block. A hemp basket sat neatly before it, ready to receive its grisly offering. The jailers had thrown Drew a clean white tunic top for his execution, more likely because it would cover his injuries rather than because it would make him appear respectable. Though his bruising had faded slightly there were still tell-tale red marks showing through the shirt’s back where the wounds from his flogging remained open and angry. Drew’s stomach heaved now as he was drawn ever closer, his fate stark and clear before him. Still, he tried not to show his fear, instead thinking back to Duke Bergan’s words in Brackenholme. No more tears. Give them nothing.

  Standing beside the block was the cloaked and cowled lord chancellor, talking at length with a scribe who was busy taking notes in a journal, nodding as the other spoke. The Lionguard stood to attention along the scaffold’s edge, facing the crowd to look for signs of trouble. The spectators kept a respectable distance from the sinister scaffold.

  As Drew was wheeled towards the scaffold, the faces of hundreds of strangers watched him pass. Some were shouting, baiting him, hurling abuse as the wheels rattled over the cobbles. For the most part the faces were solemn and downcast; it appeared there was an overwhelming feeling of grief for his situation, regardless of how the king and his advisors had spun the story.

  The cart rolled past the royal enclosure, a long wooden structure that had been erected to house the king, his companions and the various Werelords who were in attendance. Drew looked up, catching sight of Duke Bergan, Count Vega and the familiar face of his good friend Hector. The Boarlord was standing at the end of the platform, a guard on either side of him. Whereas most of the king’s guests were in their finery, Hector was drawn and haggard, wearing the same clothes that he’d been travelling in with Drew. His hair was unkempt, and he looked like he’d been receiving some special attention of his own. With his head down, chin resting on his chest, he looked broken.

  The cart turned and pulled up in front of the scaffold. The driver jumped from the front, leading a team of four waiting soldiers round to manhandle Drew down. He was led roughly up the wooden steps on to the platform as the more zealous members of the crowd began shouting anew. Pushed into the middle of the wooden decking he was forced to his knees, the stone executioner’s block within touching distance. He looked over his shoulder, where he knew the lord chancellor was standing, talking to his scribe.

  ‘Eyes down, dog,’ hissed the Wererat.

  Drew turned away, letting his gaze settle over the crowd. There were hundreds in the square, row upon row of witnesses to his death. Where they couldn’t find room in the street they could be seen hanging out of windows at the back of the plaza, or perched upon rooftops for a better view of the spectacle. Drew looked back down the road to the castle gatehouse and saw two regal carriages making their way across the drawbridge, splendid golden vehicles with footmen riding at the rear of each and teams of colourfully dressed drivers holding the reins.

  The lord chancellor stepped forward in front of Drew, his robes brushing against the young man as he passed. There was a sweet sickly smell to the Wererat that spoke of decay and rot, instantly making Drew gag where he knelt.

  ‘Your king arrives,’ shouted the lord chancellor, his voice carrying to the spectators in the distance. ‘This is the most important of days, where we witness our prince entering into matrimony. Nothing but your most fervent support for the monarch is expected. Do not disappoint His Majesty, or me for that matter!’

  The crowd roared as one, the Wererat’s prompting clearly providing the extra incentive that they needed. Drew could see soldiers milling among them. While one of the carriages pulled up at the royal enclosure, the other came to a halt before the scaffold. Footmen ran forward to open the doors swiftly as the king disembarked to a chorus of cheers. Trumpets sounded as he stood for a moment in the carriage doorway, his long red robe shining like a fiery beacon, his smile beaming as he waved to his people. Stepping down, he made the brief walk to the scaffold, lingering to wave at onlookers and shower them with his thanks and blessings before pacing slowly up the steps on to the wooden deck.

  Drew watched him revelling as the centre of attention, supposedly adored by his cheering masses. At no point did Leopold look his way, taking an inexorable amount of time to make his way centre stage. He waved, laughed, pointed and cheered, as flowers were thrown forward, bouncing off the shields and armour of the regiments of Lionguard.

  ‘My people,’ he cried, raising his hands to them in a show of appreciation, ‘such warm affection you show me on this most remarkable of days! I thank you from the bottom of my heart that you have turned out in such great numbers to witness this blessing for my son, your prince, and his bride-to-be. In all the years I’ve served you, you have never ceased to amaze me. Your unwavering love and loyalty bring fresh joy to my soul with each passing day.’ At this the most devout in the crowd roared once more, a round of applause rattling through the throng like a volley of arrows. The king gestured to the royal enclosure where Prince Lucas, Lady Gretchen and Queen Amelie had just taken their seats.

  ‘But please,’ he went on. ‘Today is not for me; it is for my son, Lucas, and his enchanting fiancée!’ More cheering erupted. Drew looked over. The boy prince rose to wave, grateful for the compliment from his father and the crowd’s attention. Gretchen sat by his side wearing a silver gown, impeccably dressed and decorated. Her face was as still as a statue. She stared ahead as if in a trance, her demeanour directly mirroring that of Queen Amelie. This was the first time Drew had laid eyes on the woman who was his mother, and his heart skipped a beat as he prayed she would look his way. Her long white hair was piled on her head, nestling within a crystal tiara. She was beautiful just as he imagined a queen should be, but there was an emptiness to her face, as if great sadness was hidden just behind her eyes, locked away from the people. She wore a black dress, in contrast to Gretchen, and if she did know that Drew was her son she showed no acknowledgement. She sat motionless, like she’d witnessed the coming savagery a thousand times before. Drew’s stomach lurched again as he discovered new depths of misery.

  ‘We shall bear witness to the joining of the House of the Lion and the House of the Fox, reaffirming our age-old allegiance to one another, while heralding the dawning of a bright new age ahead. My dear queen has joined us also, disregarding her ailments to be present at this blessing, such is the love she has for her family and her people.’ More excitement rose up from the crowd.

  Drew had to wonder what he meant by ailments. Was she ill? The king turned to Drew finally.

  ‘And here,’ he said, pointing at the boy who knelt before him, ‘is the man who would bring death and disorder to our fair realms. This is the creature who has wandered through our lands, terrorizing our people, causing chaos and treachery wherever he treads. This beast was born from the Wolf, some half-breed Wylderman who thinks that being the illegitimate offspring of a cruel and barbaric tyrant makes him the rightful King of Lyssia. What do you say
, people? Is this your king?’ he yelled, casting his hand towards Drew in a sweeping motion. The fervent crowd at the front of the cordon of guards booed and hissed, screaming obscenities while threatening to surge forward. The soldiers held them back, pushing with shield and pike shaft, maintaining their distance.

  The king nodded, his face a mask of mock outrage and concern, his mood equally as appalled as that of his subjects. He walked behind Drew, letting the crowd’s noise build, letting the misguided hatred wash over the scaffold. He spoke to Drew, quiet enough that only the young Werewolf could hear him.

  ‘You hear that, dog?’ he said. ‘You hear the people? My people! Hear how they call my name and mock yours? Your father would be spinning in his grave to see the snivelling wretch I see before my eyes, that’s if we hadn’t burned his rotten corpse to ashes.’ Drew’s eyes stung as tears began to well. He gritted his teeth, holding them back.

  ‘To think,’ muttered the king, ‘that my own son shares the same blood as you. I feel sick to think that a dog like you was born into this world by my queen. Believe me when I say I take delight in knowing that by killing you I remove the last stain of the Wolf from that great lady.’