Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Indeed,’ said Vega. ‘The rightful king of Westland. That’s why Onyx came to Lyssia, to ensure a felinthrope of his choosing remains on the throne and controls the Seven Realms.’

  ‘Where is this son of Wergar now?’

  Manfred and Vega looked at one another awkwardly.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said the Sharklord. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘You’ve misplaced your king?’ said Bosa, hiding a smirk.

  ‘The boy is strong-willed,’ said Manfred. ‘He’s his father’s son, but with something else. He headed south recklessly, no army at his back, to save the life of a friend. He knows right from wrong, but has an empathy with others that’s rare among the Werelords: he has the common touch.’

  The three therians were quiet for a moment, each staring out over the gambling hall as the music played.

  ‘My dear, sweet Vega,’ said Bosa eventually. ‘If you and your allies came here seeking sanctuary I’m afraid you came to the wrong place. I won’t stand in the way of these Bastians, and I’m certainly not looking to pick a fight with Ghul. It’s been many a year since my rear sat in a ship; I’m not sure it would fit any more!’

  ‘We’re not seeking your swords or support, old friend,’ said Vega. ‘I know what kind of hoard you sit on here, Bosa. You’ve the wealth of ten Werelords on this island, hidden Sosha knows where, the spoils of half a century’s piracy in the Sturmish seas. You’re sitting on a war chest.’

  ‘I make no apologies for my good fortune. It’s been hard earned, Vega. I’m a trader, a gambler, an opportunist; make your point.’

  ‘The Beast of Bast will come knocking, Bosa. I merely ask you not to be drawn into this coming war on the side of the Catlords. I respect your decision not to fight alongside us, but please, don’t assist those who’d see us dead.’

  Bosa rubbed his jowls, tweaking the flesh between thumb and finger.

  ‘Agreed, my dear Vega; I give you my word. If Ghul and the Catlords do come ashore, they can expect a dazzling smile, sparkling wit and a glass of the Redwine’s finest, nothing more.’

  Vega and Manfred rose from their cushions, each offering hands to shake on the deal. Bosa staggered to his feet, batting the hands away and embracing the Werelords, one in each arm. Manfred could just about see the count’s smiling face over the Whalelord’s shoulder; it appeared the Wereshark found great amusement in the Stag’s embarrassment.

  Below the mezzanine, towards the front of the gambling hall, Vega noticed a crowd was gathering, looking out of the huge bay windows that faced out on to the harbour street. He recognized a mob when he saw one, men and women jeering excitedly at a commotion outdoors. He pulled away from Bosa as all three Werelords turned to look.

  ‘Moga might be my home, and a freeport aligned to no Realm, but there are other dangerous individuals on my isle. Did you bring anyone else ashore from the Maelstrom?’ asked Bosa.

  Manfred looked at Vega, answering for both of them.

  ‘Hector.’

  ‘Back to the Maelstrom!’

  A dozen of Vega’s men ran along the harbour front, struggling to carry barrels and sacks between them, the wind in their faces and the battle at their backs. Hector remained in the middle of them, urging them back to the landing boats. Half the goods they’d picked up lay abandoned in the market place, dropped in their hasty flight. Behind the fleeing sailors the fight continued, swords clashing as the rearguard covered their retreat. Hector cursed his ill luck.

  His mission should have been straightforward. While Vega talked with Bosa, Hector was to requisition provisions for the Maelstrom. Vega’s mate, Figgis, had accompanied him, guiding Hector to his regular supplier and leaving the Boarlord to strike the deal. It should have been uneventful; pay the man and take the goods back to the ship. Hector hadn’t accounted for the distractions the port had on offer.

  While he, Figgis and the more reputable crew members had got on with their job, a few of the men had slipped into a tavern for a stolen drink. One drink had led to five, and by the time they were ready to return to the Maelstrom an altercation had taken place. Unfortunately for Hector, his men, Ringlin and Ibal, were at the heart of the disagreement. The argument had become a fist fight, and the fists had led to knives. Two men lay dead on the stoop of the Lucky Nine tavern, cut open by the Boarguard. Chaos had erupted.

  Passing beneath the Torch of Moga, the sailors ignored the shouts of the guard in the watchtower, instead concentrating on getting what goods they’d saved on to their craft. The fight drew ever closer, Hector making his way towards the battle to hasten the men along.

  What fools they were to trust the Baron of Redmire with such a daring mission, rasped the Vincent-vile. Who’d have thought a shopping errand could result in such bloodshed?

  Ringlin and Ibal were in the thick of it, three of Vega’s men shoulder to shoulder with them engaged with ten Moga men, two-deep along the stone jetty, jabbing and hacking with knives and cutlasses. More appeared, rushing towards the melee, reinforcing the enemy.

  ‘Disengage!’ shouted Hector, his voice lost in the commotion. The goods were on the boats now; they had to beat a retreat and fast. There was no sign of Manfred and Vega, but they had to move – if they stayed they’d be cut down. He yelled again, but his orders fell on deaf ears. Ringlin and Ibal seemed to be enjoying the fight a little too much.

  They’re not listening, brother! Can you not command your own men?

  Hector glanced down the jetty to where Figgis waited, beckoning him to get on the boat. The Boarlord turned back to the fight, slipping on the wet stone floor just as a cutlass ripped down across his torso. An opponent had broken the line having felled one of Vega’s pirates. The man had intended to slash the magister’s belly open. Hector’s hapless balance might just have saved his life, his jerkin torn open as he landed on his rear.

  The attacker was instantly on top of him, striking Hector’s forehead with the basket handle of his cutlass. The Boarlord saw stars, throwing his arms up and clawing at the man’s eyes in desperation. The man screamed as Hector’s fingers found their targets, raking his face. The sound of battle was all around him, the air thick with screams and curses. A stray boot connected with Hector’s temple, sending fresh shock-waves racing through his skull. He brought a knee up, connecting with the enemy’s nether regions, making him release his grip with a cry.

  Run, brother! Run!

  Hector rolled over, crawling on all fours through puddles, vision yet to return. He could just make out Figgis ahead, calling him frantically. Then an impact in the small of his back flattened him, the knees of his foe crushing his kidneys. The man grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking Hector’s head back, throat taut, exposed. He’d have unleashed the vile on the man, but all control was lost. Since the death of Vincent by his hand, Hector had been haunted by his brother’s tormented spirit. However, with Hector’s knowledge of dark magistry growing, he’d learned to control the vile, acquiring an ability to project the shadowy spectre forward like an attack dog. In the heat of battle, though, he now found his composure floundering. Hector felt the touch of cold steel at his neck.

  No sooner had the blade touched his throat than it was gone, along with the man from his back. He heard a shrill wail and a snap, very possibly from his attacker. Hector rolled over. Both Vega and Manfred were in the middle of the mob, transformed into beasts. While many of the enemy leaped clear of the changed therians, some of the braver, more foolish souls, stayed for the fight.

  The Werestag threw his fists into the men, dropping his antlers to catch and launch them aside. Bodies flew as he made short work of those who stood in his way. The Wereshark was more reckless, not caring how gravely he harmed his enemy. Limbs were torn free, fountains of blood erupting as Vega went into a frenzy. Within moments the pier was clear, the men from the Maelstrom regaining their composure, their foes defeated.

  ‘Thanks for coming when you did, captai
n …’

  Vega, still transformed, backhanded the speaker across the face, sending him sliding along the wet stone pier.

  ‘Shut your rattle, Carney,’ roared Vega. ‘If I didn’t need you on the Maelstrom I’d have left you here to be skinned alive! They’ll be back shortly, and there’ll be more of them. Get to the ship, we sail immediately!’

  The men didn’t move, staring at the transformed Sharklord fearfully.

  ‘Are you deaf?’ he screamed furiously, death-black eyes bulging, rows of razor sharp teeth bared. ‘Move it!’

  The men moved quickly, all but Ringlin and Ibal who had a self-satisfied swagger about them as they passed a prostrate Hector by. The short fat one patted the other on the back as they returned their weapons to their belts. Vega lunged, catching each by the throat and lifting them high. The men kicked at thin air, hands raking at the Sharklord’s muscular grey forearms. Manfred stepped forward to stop him but the Pirate Prince wouldn’t be halted.

  ‘Back off, Manfred,’ said Vega, focusing on the two rogues. ‘This is your doing, isn’t it? Pick a fight in Moga? They were Slotha’s men. Slotha’s! My boys are many things, but they’re not suicidal!’

  ‘They … dishonoured us …’ gasped Ringlin.

  ‘You have no honour!’ yelled Vega. ‘Why shouldn’t I kill you both here and now?’ He tightened his dark claws in their throats, a squeeze away from ending their lives.

  ‘Because they’re the Boarguard,’ said Hector, over the mournful wail of the wind. He was back on his feet again, and Vega looked at him with disbelief. ‘An attack on my men is an attack on Redmire. And on me.’

  Vega let go of them, the two men crumpling to the ground in a heap. Both scrambled over one another to get away, scurrying to the end of the long pier and joining the other men on the rowboats. Only the three Werelords remained on the stone promontory, in an uneasy stand-off. They could hear Slotha’s men calling for assistance, the beaten mob quickly growing into a fighting force.

  ‘We need to return to the Maelstrom,’ said Manfred, taking Vega by the upper arm. The Shark lord shrugged him loose, looking overhead at the Torch of Moga. The lookout had already set light to the pyre on top, the fire burning hungrily and devouring the stacked timber. Bright flames and dark smoke belched into the stormy night sky.

  ‘Your idiot Boarguard might just have drawn Lady Slotha on to our wake. If you ever reprimand me again …’ Vega choked on his words, furious with the young Baron of Redmire. He pointed at Hector. ‘Control your dogs, magister. Or I’ll control them for you.’

  5

  The Eighth Wonder

  The spear struck Drew’s temple. The skin split as his head recoiled and he crashed into the dust, ears ringing and head spinning. The weapon may have been blunt and fashioned from wood, but it was deadly enough. Drew scrambled clear as the spear stabbed into the ground where his head had been a second earlier. His attacker let the weapon glance off the floor and pirouetted, bringing it back down to Drew’s new position on the baked earth of the ludus. Another roll from the young Wolf enabled him to evade the next lunge, this one destined for his bare belly. His enemy anticipated Drew’s next tumble, jumping swiftly ahead of him to place a well-aimed kick at his jaw.

  Just as Drew had hoped.

  His hand was already coming up, snatching the foot from the air as it swung down. At the same moment he scissor-kicked his combatant’s standing ankle, sweeping her legs from beneath her. She landed beside him, the wind knocked from her lungs. He reached for her, momentarily forgetting that he no longer had both hands, his left arm flailing at thin air. Cursing to himself, Drew rolled across, pinning her body while throwing his handless forearm over her throat. One of her arms was trapped beneath her, while the other was held in Drew’s grasp. He needed to strike her one more time to the head. Currently, their contest stood at two strikes apiece, the next hit being the winner.

  She struggled, writhing to break free, but he held her fast. She gnashed her teeth, trying to bite at his forearm, but he kept his flesh clear of her teeth. They were bright white, and sharp. Her eyes were amber, the black pupils narrowing into slits. He looked at the collar around her throat, silver like his own. If she changes, she’ll die.

  ‘Finish it!’ shouted their gladiator master, a wiry, old fellow named Griffyn. He cracked his whip at the earth a foot from them. A cloud of dust exploded into their faces, and Drew chose the moment to release his opponent and roll away.

  She was on her feet quickly, hissing at Drew while reaching for her wooden spear. Drew remained on his knees, panting heavily, looking up at the cruel sky. His skin was slick with sweat, the flesh sore from hours under the sun’s burning glare.

  ‘I won’t fight her,’ shouted Drew, glaring at Griffyn. The old man shook his head and readied another whiplash. The girl moved fast, leaping and landing behind Drew. He made no effort to evade her. They were both prisoners, both victims, being made to perform this foul game for the amusement of Kesslar and Ignus. He hoped his mercy might strike a chord with the girl.

  He was mistaken.

  ‘Then you’ll die,’ she said, striking the wooden spear shaft hard across his head.

  The clattering of plates and pots stirred Drew from his slumber, stabbing his skull like hot knives. He had a horrific headache, every noise hitting home as a hammer strikes an anvil. He’d been deposited on a trestle table in the mess, a corner of the ludus that doubled as both dining area and surgery. His presence hadn’t prevented his fellow slaves and gladiators from taking their seats. They surrounded him, glowering as he tried to shuffle clear. A canopy of palm fronds overhead protected them from the worst of the midday heat, the training having halted while the gladiators ate and drank.

  Drew swung his feet round from the end of the table and stood up gingerly, looking around the ludus. The other therians stood out against the rest of the slaves, together at a table of their own. While the humans wore their dull pig-iron collars, the therians wore silver chokers. Drew noticed that all gladiators and slaves bore the same mark upon their arms – the triangle within the circle – just as he’d seen upon Djogo. He looked at the scar upon his own left shoulder. His anger at Ignus and Kesslar for further disfiguring him remained undiminished. When he closed his eyes he could still feel the touch of the hot metal against his skin. The flesh was raised, the silver brand having done its damage well. Djogo was a slave also, then? Or a gladiator?

  Shah stood nearby, in conversation with Griffyn. Both looked across when they saw him rise. Shah came over immediately, but the old man remained a distance away, watching keenly.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the Eighth Wonder of the Furnace, a new Werelord the crowds can cheer for. You nearly got yourself killed out there this morning,’ she said.

  ‘They were wooden weapons,’ said Drew, rubbing the back of his head. ‘What harm could they really do?’

  ‘Don’t be arrogant, Wolf. Taboo has other weapons, remember – her claws could have removed your throat if she’d so desired.’

  ‘Whatever therianthrope she is, she’d have risked death if she’d changed and she didn’t strike me as suicidal.’ He looked across the ludus to where the woman sat dining with the other therians. ‘Ungrateful. But not suicidal.’

  ‘You underestimate your opponent. Had you not considered she has more control of her therianthropy than you?’

  Drew glowered at Shah. ‘I didn’t expect my kindness to be thrown back in my face.’

  ‘Kindness will get you killed.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Drew stiffly. He didn’t much like Shah, and was in no mood to be patronized by one of Kesslar’s cronies. He passed by a serving table where a couple of the slaves were dishing out the gruel. Drew snatched up a pot of the anaemic looking slop and made his way to the therian table. There were seven seated in all.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked, his voice unsteady.

  Each figure was fearsome looking, and
none seemed especially pleased to see him. A look passed between two on the end who looked like brothers, heavy-set men with broad shoulders and massive hairy arms. One of them opened the palm of his hand and gestured towards a seat opposite. Drew smiled and sat down beside another large man who left him little room on the end of the bench. He glowered briefly at Drew, his broad nose and lips curling with contempt before turning away.

  ‘Don’t mind Krieg,’ said one of the hairy brothers. ‘The Rhino can be a bad-tempered beast at the best of times.’

  ‘What’s a Rhino?’

  The brothers looked at one another in disbelief. Even the brute named Krieg allowed Drew a glance before shaking his head. Drew slunk low in his seat, embarrassed by his ignorance, scooping up the gruel with his fingers and shovelling it into his mouth hungrily.

  ‘You’re a Lyssian, then?’ asked the other brother.

  ‘They say he’s a Wolf,’ said the first. ‘Is that right?’

  Drew nodded, wondering where the conversation was headed.

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ said number two. ‘Got a lot to learn too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, firstly, showing Taboo down there kindness is a sure-fire way of getting yourself killed.’

  The young woman with the amber eyes at the opposite end of the table shot them a glare. The two brothers laughed.

  ‘She doesn’t play nice with others, poor little princess!’ said the second brother.

  ‘Shut your mouth, Balk, or I’ll shut it for you!’ she shouted. Balk waved her away dismissively.

  ‘Save your boasts for the Furnace, little girl,’ said Balk’s brother. ‘My brother and I will teach you some manners in the dust.’

  Drew noticed that none of the others joined the conversation, each concentrating on their eating and ignoring the bickering.

  ‘You’re brave when you’re with your brother, Arik,’ the girl said. ‘I’d watch your back; you can’t always hide in his shadow.’