‘Well played, Ferran,’ chuckled the albino. ‘You’re a shrewd young man. Come with me; that sword of yours is missing something.’
1
A Beast At One’s Back
For a moment he didn’t recognize his own reflection. His face was tanned, beaten by the elements, while his black hair hung over his eyes, cloaking them in shadow. The water rippled as he ran his fingertips across the surface, the image fracturing with their passing, soon gone from sight.
Clasping the barrel’s edge with his one hand, Drew dipped his face forward, submerging his whole head beneath the water. Although it was dusk, the water was warm after standing all day beneath the hot Scorian sun. He shook his head from side to side, the water cleansing the blood, dust and filth from his face.
When his head came up he was momentarily blinded, dragging his mutilated left arm across his eyes, blinking the water away. Slowly, he was adjusting to life without the hand, relying on his right for every little task. The phantom sensations would probably never leave him, but he could learn to tolerate them in time. As his vision returned he realized he was no longer alone. The roofless bathhouse was deserted, the human and therian gladiators had disappeared to the ludus to eat. Having spent the day surrounded by others, fighting and sparring, Drew had taken a moment for himself, disappearing into the baths of the gladiator school to reflect in solitude on his predicament. He should have known better. Privacy was a luxury he no longer enjoyed, and a lone soul separated from the pack would always be a target for predators.
Arik and Balk had appeared at the far end of the open chamber, casting long shadows in Drew’s direction as they watched him, waiting for him to move. Drew could feel the adrenaline coursing through his exhausted body, preparing him for the coming fight. He wasn’t ready for this. His body was battered and bruised from hours of punishing drills and contests. He eyeballed each of the brothers, baring his teeth, putting on a show of strength. But it was bravado.
The Apes had both sparred with him over the course of the day, and he’d bested each of them under the watchful eye of Griffyn, the old gladiator master. Drew had put his victories down to good luck and survival instinct. He was approaching each fight as if it were his last, each opponent in the ludus an obstacle to overcome if he was ever to see Lyssia again. Beating the Wereapes in single combat was one thing; defeating them both at once, however, was a feat that no gladiator had ever accomplished. The two brutes grinned, their huge white teeth shining within their ugly faces as they stepped forward.
Then they halted.
Their smiles transformed into sneers. Arik spat on the floor and Balk stalked away. The remaining Wereape growled, the sound deep and bassy, bouncing off the bathhouse walls and making Drew’s guts quake. Then the warrior turned and lumbered after his brother. Drew remained motionless, suddenly realizing that he’d been holding his breath. Slowly he exhaled, his lips trembling as the air escaped in a steady, relieved stream. His extremities shook, his body still prepared for a fight that wasn’t going to happen. What had made them stop?
‘I can’t always have your back, Wolf.’
Drew turned at the voice, surprised to see Drake standing a few feet behind him.
‘I didn’t see you there.’
Drake pointed after the departed Wereapes.‘They did.’
He walked past Drew towards the water barrel, grasping the wooden frame before plunging his head beneath the water’s surface. For the first time, Drew got a good look at him. Drake was perhaps a year older than him, and by the look of his body he’d spent a great deal of time in the Furnace. As toned and muscular as he was, his torso was hatchmarked with old injuries, a grisly map of scars. Drew thought about his own awful injuries – the severed hand, the whipmarks on his back from Highcliff, his brand from the Furnace – and felt an empathy for another person that until that moment had been missing since he left Lyssia.
With alarm, he realized that Drake’s head had been submerged for a dreadfully long time. Was Drake trying to take his own life? Drew lurched forward, grabbing the other therian by the shoulder and yanking him back out of the barrel. The two tumbled into the dirt, Drake beating Drew away with an expression of deep irritation on his face.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You’d been under for ages,’ said Drew. ‘I thought …’
‘You thought what? I’d drowned?’
Drake got to his feet, dusting himself down, his torso and head soaking. He ran his hands through his hair, slicking it away from his face.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn about the therians of Bast, Wolf,’ chuckled Drake.
‘I’m a Werecrocodile. Water is the least of my worries.’
‘I fought one of those croc-creatures,’ Drew gasped. ‘They’re like dragons!’
Drake laughed. ‘I suppose so. My father always told me we were descended from the dragons. Perhaps he was on to something.’
Drake held his hand out to Drew, snatching his arm and helping him to his feet.
‘I’m not the only Reptilelord – there are a few of us,’ he said wearily, glancing towards the open archway that led from the baths back into the ludus.
‘You’re different when you’re away from the others,’ said Drew, warming to the other therian.
‘I have a reputation to keep up, Wolf. I’m a killer. It’d do me no good if they all thought I was stepping into everyone else’s fight. They’d think I was going soft.’
‘So what was this? A rare moment of compassion?’
Drake looked hard at Drew. ‘You and I aren’t so different.’
‘You feel that too?’ said Drew. ‘It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper conversation with someone, I’d almost forgotten what it felt like. This was the last place I expected to find friendship.’
Drake arched a thin eyebrow at Drew’s words. ‘Friendship? You’re getting ahead of yourself, Wolf. I see myself in you, back when I first arrived on Scoria.’
‘When was that?’
‘Nine years ago.’
‘Nine years?’ exclaimed Drew, unable to hide his astonishment. He tried to imagine what he was doing nine years ago. He was probably playing with the lambs on the farm, or hanging off his mother’s apron strings. Drake had been in the ludus all that time, a child, just like Drew?
‘I know,’ replied Drake, thinking for a moment. ‘I’ve spent half my life in this hellhole. I can hardly remember my life before the Furnace.’
Drew expected to see a change in Drake’s mood, but it didn’t happen. The Crocodile simply leaned back against the stone wall of the baths and stared up into the darkening sky.
‘What was your story, before all this?’ Drake asked.
Now it was Drew’s turn to smile. ‘How long do you have?’
He gave Drake a brief summary of his life, from growing up on the farm to the discovery of his lycanthropy and all that had followed.
‘The last of the Grey Wolves of Lyssia, eh?’ said Drake, sucking his teeth. ‘You know, your old man was like a bogeyman to the people of Bast. He was the “enemy across the water”, the monster who was going to sail south and attack our lands. Little did we know the real foe was closer to home.’
‘Closer to home?’
‘The Catlords,’ muttered Drake. ‘They’re the reason I’m here. They conquered my people, took our land for their own and stole hundreds of children, like me. I often wonder what became of my family, whether the Cats spared my mother’s life or killed her as they did my father.’
‘Have you been fighting since then?’
‘By the Wyrm’s teeth, no! After I was brought to Scoria, I was put to work as a slave in Ignus’s palace. When I began to change from child into youth they tired of me quickly – I was a liability. The last thing they needed was a Werecrocodile on the cusp of the change wandering around the palace. They sent me down here, under Griffyn’s tutelage. I started in the ludus the same ti
me as Taboo.’
‘He seems strict.’
‘Griffyn? I suppose he is. The old man’s doing you a favour. If he cracks his whip or shoves you back into the sand to spar one more time, just remember: he’s helping you stay alive. If he shows you no mercy, that’s because you can expect none in the Furnace. Believe me, if anyone knows how to survive the arena, it’s him.’
‘Griffyn? Why?’
‘He was a gladiator once himself, possibly the greatest to ever fight in the Furnace. Five years or so he fought for Ignus and his brothers. He was the crowd’s favourite, a true champion. If ever a gladiator earned his freedom, it was him.’
‘He doesn’t look free to me.’
Drake shrugged. ‘He’s as free as you can ever expect to be when you’re owned by Ignus. He no longer wakes each morning wondering whether the day will be his last. You and I don’t have that luxury.’
Drew thought about the old man, finding it hard to imagine how he had ever been a gladiator, let alone a champion.
‘How is it that Taboo is here – a prisoner, a gladiator – if she’s a Felinthrope?’
‘That’s a question you need to ask Taboo. She’ll tear my throat out if I go blabbing about her past.’
‘You know her well, then?’
‘Well enough, Wolf. She’s the closest thing to a friend I’ll ever have.’
‘That’s sweet.’
Drake cackled. ‘Don’t talk soft, Wolf. I’ll still have to kill her if we come face to face in the Furnace.’
Drew shivered at the Crocodile’s cold words. ‘How can you say that so matter-of-factly?’
Drake turned to Drew and prodded a finger in the young Wolflord’s chest. ‘You need to wake up, and fast,’ he said. ‘This – you and me talking, shooting our mouths off – this is fun. This feels almost normal, like how folk talk to one another beyond the walls of the Furnace. Only we’ll never get to experience that, will we? We’re stuck here, and thinking about any other life is sheer folly. You’re a gladiator, Drew, and gladiators fight and die. Don’t ever forget that.’
He was about to jab Drew in the chest again with his final comment when Drew caught his finger.
‘There’s something you’ve forgotten, Drake. We may be prisoners for now, at the mercy of Ignus and Kesslar, but we’re Werelords. Think of the power each of us possesses, and what we could do if we worked together. There is a life for us beyond these walls. And I intend to return to it.’
Drew turned towards the ludus. ‘Thanks for stepping in with the Ape brothers, Drake,’ he said over his shoulder as he made for the archway from the bathhouse. ‘But if you’re worried about losing face in front of the other gladiators, next time feel free to leave me to fight my own battles.’
The Werecrocodile watched the Wolf go. ‘You’re on your own, Wolf!’ he shouted after him, chuckling hollowly as Drew disappeared.
2
Deadly Waters
The Maelstrom remained tantalizingly out of reach of the two chasing ships’ cannons, her eight white sails faintly visible in the dim light of dusk. The pursuers had been dogging the pirate ship for days now, hot on her heels since she’d fled Moga in a mist of blood. The ships represented the twin enemies of the Maelstrom on the high seas: the Rainbow Serpent of Lady Slotha and the Quiet Death from the Cluster Isles. Slotha had not sat idle since hearing of the bloodshed in Moga, sending the Rainbow Serpent out immediately. The Quiet Death had joined the chase not long afterwards, the lead ship in the Weresquid Ghul’s fearsome fleet.
While the captain of the Rainbow Serpent wasn’t known to the crew of the Maelstrom, they knew the Quiet Death’s commander all too well. Captain Klay was another of the Sealords, a therian of the ocean like Vega and Ghul. A pirate first and a Werelord second, the Barracuda was a butcher of men and a maker of widows. Sticking close to the Rainbow Serpent, Lord Klay was determined to be the Werelord to capture the elusive Count Vega and, better still, put the Shark to the sword.
Klay stood at the prow of the Quiet Death, as it sailed slightly ahead and to starboard of the Rainbow Serpent, willing his vessel to greater speeds, but his ship remained at a distance from the Maelstrom. Vega’s ship was the fastest for sure, but the Quiet Death was a close second. If Klay could capture the count’s ship, he might even end up with the two fastest pirate ships in the known seas. Imagine that! And here was the Quiet Death, keeping apace with the Shark. He grinned to himself. Klay had been waiting for his chance to come up against Vega. The man was a braggart and a showman, grown soft over the years on a fading reputation. His time was over. Vega didn’t have the nerve to cut it as a pirate any more, better suited to flouncing around in the courts of Lyssia. Leave the piracy to the true Sealords, Vega.
An explosion of fire along the port side of the Rainbow Serpent caused Klay’s head to whip round. The Sealord ran to the Quiet Death’s starboard to better see the destruction, the other ship only forty feet from his own. Two more eruptions along the Rainbow Serpent’s flank sent fire racing across her frame, snaking through the cannon hatches below deck. The screams from the men within mixed with the roar of the hungry flames. Within moments the ship was careering wildly out of control as the deckhands rushed to put out fires, abandoning their posts – the Tuskun ship was lurching towards the Quiet Death.
‘Hard to port,’ screamed Klay as his own crew rushed to their posts, their pursuit of the Maelstrom halted by the devastation that had struck their companion vessel. Fire now covered the decks of the Rainbow Serpent, her crew desperately trying to tame the inferno. The Quiet Death was able to turn aside just in time as the other lunged across her bow, wails and flames trailing in her wake. A loud boom within the middle of the ship sent timbers splintering into the night sky as something exploded within the Rainbow Serpent’s belly. Klay’s crew watched in horror as burning men leaped from the other warship into the sea.
Fire and yelling on board the Quiet Death now caused fresh chaos, as Klay’s men rushed about in a panic. The Sealord saw his mizzenmast aflame, the orange fire licking up the sails and devouring them hungrily. How could this be happening? He snatched hold of his first mate by the throat, shaking him like a doll.
‘What’s going on?’
‘The fire, captain!’ cried the man. ‘The fire and the monster!’
Monster? Klay tossed him aside into the path of more fleeing men. They looked over their shoulders, clearly fearful of whatever awaited them there.
‘Get back, you dogs!’ Klay yelled, his face morphing as he began to channel the Barracuda. He whipped out his sabre as his eyes grew luminescent, teeth sharpening into long white needles. His skin took on a pale silver pallor, his mouth splitting the flesh as the jaw receded towards his ears.
‘Screaming like women – I’m the only monster here! I see you running to the foredecks and I’ll cut you in two myself! Get that mast down, and quench those fires!’
To emphasize the point he took a swipe at the air in front of them, the sabre scything inches from the men’s throats. They fell back as one, terrified into returning to the flames, the first mate leading the way. Buckets were hurried along lines as the crew of the Quiet Death were forced to clamber up the burning rigging. Flaming sails fell to the deck as the men struggled to kill the fire. Captain Klay nodded contentedly, pleased that his men were now shaping up.
He was about to return to the rest of his crew when the wet thunk of something hitting the deck made him halt. Klay glanced down, thinking a bucket had fallen from a sailor’s grasp. The sight of a decapitated head staring back at him did not instantly register.
He looked up as a severed arm spun through the air, narrowly missing his face. Through the smoke and shadows he could see shapes moving frantically, men running, swords slashing, as a melee had broken out beneath the flaming mast. He shifted his sabre in his grip before stalking through the choking grey clouds. An arc of blood sprayed him as he emerged into the fight. His first mate’s
carotid artery had been opened up like a bottle of the Redwine’s finest. As the body tumbled on to a pile of equally lifeless corpses, Klay squinted through the smoke, trying to spot the killer. He opened his mouth wide, teeth glistening, an armoury of shining daggers. He tried to call his men to him, rally them to his aid, but no sound came forth. With surprise and horror he felt a wet sensation washing down his chest and soaking his shirt. He reached a faltering hand up to his throat, finding a gaping hole where it used to be.
The Werefish Klay, commander of the Kraken Ghul’s fleet, tumbled on to the corpses of his shipmates. As his life slipped away he stared up at the monstrous silhouette that towered over him; broad grey head, dead black eyes and razor-sharp teeth that went on forever. So fast: never saw him coming. The Wereshark, Count Vega, tossed the lump of torn throat and severed vocal chords on to the Barracuda’s body. The last thing Klay heard was the captain of the Maelstrom’s voice, dark as the night.
‘How’s that for your Quiet Death, Klay?’
Hector watched the burning ships from the rear deck, the crew of the Maelstrom cheering all around him. The ship’s rocking left him feeling constantly ill; a life at sea didn’t suit the young magister’s weak constitution. Hector had found it impossible to keep a meal down since boarding the Maelstrom, and couldn’t wait until they hit land once more. Lady Bethwyn stood at his side, shivering despite her thick cloak. He wanted to put a comforting arm around her, but found his limbs unwilling.
What are you afraid of? She won’t bite!
Hector snarled at the taunts of the Vincent-vile, and Bethwyn heard the noise that escaped his lips. He smiled awkwardly, embarrassment never far away. A commotion on the main deck caused a crowd to gather. Bethwyn turned and followed the men as they rushed to their returning captain. Vega was soaking, his white shirt clinging to his torso as he shook the excess water from his body. Duke Manfred passed the Sharklord his cloak.
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 6
