Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘That was some piece of work, Vega,’ said the Staglord, impressed.

  ‘I did what had to be done. That’s put their lead ships off our tail for the time being. We might be able to put some distance between ourselves and the remaining pack.’

  ‘Klay’s dead, then?’ asked Hector as he approached.

  Vega looked up, tousling his long dark locks dry with the cloak.

  ‘Very much so,’ said the Shark, his characteristic smile not present. ‘Klay’s reputation was built upon hitting hard and showing no mercy. He got what he deserved.’

  Vega’s plan had been as cunning as one might have expected from the Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles. As twilight fell they’d lowered a small boat overboard, loaded up with flasks of Spyr Oil and a hooded lantern. The Shark had then clambered in and rowed silently back towards the pursuing ships, ensuring he ended up between the two.

  Once in position he’d lit the flasks and launched them at the Rainbow Serpent, saving the last to throw at the Quiet Death. Diving from the boat, he’d clambered on to the pirate ship while the crew were distracted by the fires. Transformed into his therian form, he’d added to the madness, slaughtering the enemy and dispatching their captain, the terrible Lord Klay.

  Vega clapped his hands, attracting the crew’s attention. ‘Enough lollygagging, lads! We need to make the most of Sosha’s blessings. Ghul and Slotha aren’t far behind. These are uncharted waters and we mean to reach Roof – let’s not get complacent!’

  The crew immediately dispersed back to their posts, leaving the Werelords to return to the aft deck. Queen Amelie stared at the burning ships in the west.

  ‘Will there be survivors?’

  ‘I should think so,’ said Vega. ‘I’m not a monster, Your Majesty. But their fate isn’t our concern.’

  ‘That’s cold,’ said the queen.

  ‘That’s war,’ sighed Vega. ‘With respect, Your Majesty, it’s the business we’re in.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Vega. You forget my people are from this part of the world. The White Wolves of Sturmland are a tough breed.’

  ‘So tough they were chased out of Shadowhaven when the Lionguard arrived.’

  Amelie slapped the Sharklord hard across the face.

  ‘Do not mock me! The White Wolves were lucky to escape Shadowhaven with their lives. If I hadn’t agreed to wed Leopold he’d have slaughtered all my people. Who knows where my brethren are now? My people are lost, Vega!’

  See how poisonous the Sharklord is to your precious Council? I can’t imagine the Wolf would be pleased to hear how the Shark speaks to his mother!

  ‘Show some respect to the queen, Vega,’ said Hector, the words out before he’d even considered them. He wished he could take them back, but it was too late.

  Very good, brother!

  Vega looked up, his left eyebrow threatening to lift off his head. Even Manfred was surprised to hear Hector speak to the Sharklord in such a manner. Vega bowed to Hector, smiling through a split lip he’d sustained in the melee.

  ‘My apologies,’ said the sea marshal. ‘I meant no offence.’

  ‘This quarrelling does us no good,’ said Manfred. ‘We need to remain unified. If we’re at one another’s throats then we’re doomed. With my brother and Bergan gone and Drew still lost, we only have each other.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Count Vega. I spoke out of turn,’ said the queen. ‘I worry about all lives in these terrible times, even those of our enemy.’

  ‘That’s understandable, Your Majesty,’ said Vega, his voice now respectful. ‘The beast sometimes gets the better of me.’

  ‘The hour’s late, gentlemen. We shall retire for the evening and see you at first light.’

  The three male Werelords all bowed as the queen and Bethwyn departed. Hector watched Bethwyn go, the girl glancing back just once before disappearing below decks. His heart briefly skipped a beat.

  ‘Speaking to her wouldn’t hurt,’ said Vega, causing Hector to start. The sea marshal didn’t look up, unfurling his sketchy maps and inspecting them hopefully by lantern-light. Hector’s anger flared at Vega’s remark, but he remained tight-lipped.

  ‘I’d have thought we’d have encountered one of our own ships by now,’ said Manfred, casting his thumb across the waters ahead of them on the parchment. ‘They’re out here somewhere, Brenn help them.’

  ‘If they’re lost then they’re at Sosha’s mercy,’ said Vega. ‘Hopefully they’ll all make it to Roof and we can regroup there.’

  Hector looked away, back towards the door that led to the cabins.

  Yes, go and speak with her, Hector. She won’t be able to resist you: you’re the Baron of Redmire now, remember?

  Hector shivered, stepping away from the two therians as they looked back to the faded sea charts. He made his way down the staircase back to the main deck, stepping aside as sailors rushed about. The sails clapped as the wind caught them, speeding them away from the burning ships.

  He spied Ringlin and Ibal, skulking in the shadows before the poop deck. Since the fight in Moga, Hector had been forced to show control over the duo, ordering them to work alongside Vega’s men.

  They nodded briefly as he passed them by, but didn’t speak.

  They don’t trust you any more, brother, and who can blame them? Letting Vega take a whip to them? Flogging them in front of his crew? You’re lucky they haven’t slit your throat in your sleep!

  ‘They had to be punished,’ said Hector under his breath. He strode to the side of the ship, gloved hands clutching the rail. He could feel his evening meal rising in his throat, the sickness returning.

  Yes, but by you, surely? Not by the Shark!

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Vincent. I know what I’m doing.’

  The vile’s gurgling laughter made Hector’s skin crawl. He felt its cold breath rasp against his ear, while bile raced towards his mouth.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he whispered to himself, but his words felt hollow.

  3

  Blood in the Dust

  ‘You’re up, Wolf!’

  Drew remained seated, ignoring Griffyn’s words. The din was deafening, dust falling from the ceiling into his holding pen. A grilled door barred his entrance into the Furnace, beyond which he could hear the bloodthirsty crowd’s cheers. Drew had just witnessed the Wereapes, Balk and Arik, tear through ten gladiators. The brothers now stood in the centre of the arena, caked in blood and gore, roaring triumphantly at the ghoulish spectators.

  ‘I shall not fight innocent men.’

  ‘Then you’ll die.’

  Drew looked round. The old gladiator master stood behind bars at his back, there to ensure the Wolf entered the arena. He held Drew’s collar in his hand, having removed the silver choker once he’d been locked into the cell. Two of Ignus’s warriors stood either side of Griffyn, each carrying polearms. The foot-long blades on their ends shone brilliantly, the silver reflecting flashes of sunlight into Drew’s face. He winced, raising his wrist stump to his eyes.

  ‘Pick up your weapons, boy,’ said Griffyn, insistent now. The guards began to lower their weapons towards the grilled door. ‘Kesslar didn’t bring you all this way to be run through in this stinking pen.’

  ‘Then he’s in for a disappointment.’

  ‘Banish all thought of these men being innocent,’ said Griffyn. ‘They’re killers, Wolf; gladiators. They live to fight and die.’

  The Apes had now departed and the bodies of their opponents had been removed. Drew heard the grating of metal cogs as the door mechanism ground into action. The metal bars rose, hard clay falling from the spiked ends that had been buried in the baked earth. Drew choked as the hot dust blew into the cell, catching in his throat.

  Griffyn reached through the bars for one of the weapons lying on the floor that had been given to the Werewolf. Drew snatched the old man’s forearm, holding him fast. The t
wo glared at one another.

  ‘If you want to live, Wolf, pick up the weapons,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Why do you care if I live or die?’

  Griffyn smiled. ‘You remind me of someone I used to know.’

  A guard grabbed hold of Griffyn’s shoulder, trying to pull the gladiator master back.

  ‘Pick them up and fight!’ said Griffyn.

  With that, the warriors pulled Griffyn clear and readied their polearms to strike. Drew could hear the crowd chanting and booing now, growing restless with the delay. He picked up his weapons.

  The two blades were old and pitted, each caked with dried blood and rust. The first was a trident dagger with a basket handle, no doubt formerly the property of some other single-armed gladiator. Drew pulled it over his stump, using the pommel of the other weapon, a shortsword, to bang it home. The fit was tight.

  Rising, Drew took a couple of deep breaths before looking back at Griffyn. The old gladiator nodded to Drew, pointing towards the exit. Saying a silent prayer to Brenn, he turned and stepped out into the Furnace.

  The first thing that hit Drew was the unbearable heat. The sun glared down, while the ground felt like a bed of hot coals. The sulphurous smell was overwhelming, pockets of the noxious gas leaking from the cracked arena floor. The sand was stained crimson and brown from the day’s earlier battles, the blood drying swiftly in the soaring temperature. He was walking into the heart of hell, with no turning back.

  The mob filled the seating all around, a mixture of the wealthy and poor of Scoria, all united in their bloodlust. They bayed at Drew as he walked into the centre of the Furnace, screaming obscenities and howling wildly. One side of the terrace was taken up by guests from the palace of Lord Ignus, the viewing deck jutting out from the black and white marble walls. Great sails of colourful cloth kept the heat from Ignus’s guests while they lounged and feasted, enjoying their sport.

  On the opposite side of the arena, Drew saw a trio of figures entering the Furnace. The heat haze caused them to shimmer into focus as they approached. One carried a net and trident, a broad helmet covering his face. Another carried a spear and shield, a pot-helm hiding his head from view. The last carried a pair of shortswords, spinning them in his hands as he advanced.

  ‘Behold!’ cried Ignus from his viewing deck. He wore a long white robe, open to his midriff, baring his smooth oiled chest. His three brothers stood leaning on the balcony, similarly undressed, ugly and misshapen. Beside Ignus, Drew spied Kesslar, Shah and Djogo.

  ‘I give you Drew of the Dyrewood, the last Grey Wolf of Lyssia!’

  The crowded found new volumes, roaring their approval and chanting for blood.

  ‘He faces Haxur of the Teeth; Obliss of Ro-Shann; and our very own Galtus, the Swords of Scoria!’

  The crowd chanted the gladiators’ names, each having their favourites. The one named Galtus – whom Drew had to assume carried the two swords – seemed to be popular, clearly one of Scoria’s champions. They each raised their weapons to the crowd, soaking up their adulation. They’re enjoying this madness!

  The gladiators split formation, fanning out as they circled Drew. Each was clearly a seasoned slayer of men – better armed and armoured than the ten the Apes had slaughtered – and they moved with deadly grace. Nevertheless, Drew had no intention of killing anyone. His fight was with Ignus and Kesslar.

  ‘I don’t want to fight you …’ began Drew, but the one with the trident moved quickly. The net flew through the air landing over Drew, the lead balls clattering about his waist as he became entangled.

  ‘Too bad!’ yelled Obliss, leaping forward to drive his pronged spear home. Drew twisted clear as the weapon ripped through the air where his stomach had been a second previously. He dived into a roll, arms pinned by the netting as he powered himself towards the spot Obliss had vacated, just as Haxur’s spear struck the earth where he’d stood.

  ‘See how he runs with his tail between his legs!’ laughed Haxur.

  Drew scrambled to his knees, sawing at the net with sword and parrying dagger, desperate to free himself. The crowd laughed and jeered, disappointed to see how quickly this great Wolf from the Northern continent had fallen. The gladiators laughed, clapping Galtus on the back as he stepped forward.

  ‘You’re a long way from home, Lyssian cur,’ said the Scorian champion. Drew scrambled back, toppling and kicking into the dirt as he retreated. Galtus relentlessly closed in.

  ‘Change for me, dog, and I’ll have your pelt as a cloak!’

  Galtus kicked Drew, sending him rolling across the hot clay. The last thing he wanted was to let the Wolf loose, but it looked increasingly like he was going to have to. Drew’s shortsword arm suddenly came free from the netting, allowing him to bring it up as Galtus bore down. He parried the first sword away, but the second scored a wound across his bicep, causing the shortsword to fly from his grasp. The crowd booed, throwing stones and bits of rubbish into the Furnace.

  Galtus held his swords out to either side, turning on the spot as he looked around the arena.

  ‘This is the best Lyssia has to offer?’ he bellowed. ‘Let me kill him, Lord Ignus! Let me end this embarrassment before he ridicules the Furnace any further!’

  Ignus stood on the platform, the subject of much of the crowd’s booing. They had come to see battle, see blood. He glared across the terrace at Kesslar, then marched over to him, his face red with fury. His brothers joined him, circling the Goatlord.

  ‘You make a mockery of my arena!’ spat the outraged Lord of Scoria. ‘You sell me this worthless hound for a king’s ransom and have the gall to watch as I’m humiliated!’

  The Scorians continued to curse and bay. Fights broke out as the mob turned on one another in anger. From where Drew lay, surrounded by killers, he could see the confrontation on the balcony, Kesslar shifting back as Ignus and his brothers began to transform. Shah and Djogo took a step away from the enraged Werelords.

  Ignus’s neck elongated, his jaws widening and cracking. His thin lips ripped even further back, the flesh tearing as he opened his mouth wide. His grey oily flesh rippled, shifting quickly to a sickly green, while his bulbous eyes almost popped from their sockets. He brought his hands up, now transformed into scaly claws, readying a fist to strike the Goatlord. Kesslar stood his ground, horns breaking free as the therians put on a show of their own. Even the gladiators looked up, their attention pulled away from Drew.

  ‘You steal from me, Kesslar, and I would seek recompense!’ yelled Ignus, the Lizardlord of Scoria, his black tongue flicking over serrated teeth.

  ‘You bought the Wolf fair and square,’ brayed Kesslar, stamping a hoof angrily. ‘It’s not my fault if he won’t fight for you!’

  ‘I’ll take what you owe me, Kesslar!’ roared the Lizard. ‘In blood if I have to!’

  With that, the Scorian swung round with lightning speed and grabbed Djogo by his throat. In one savage motion he hurled him off the viewing deck.

  ‘No!’ shouted Shah as Kesslar’s captain landed twenty feet below on the red clay floor of the Furnace. Before she could move, the three other Werelizards took hold of her, wrestling her into submission.

  ‘Now we’ll see a show!’ laughed Ignus, as his warriors joined his brothers, forming a ring around Kesslar and Shah.

  ‘He can’t do this!’ cried Shah. The Goatlord made no effort to intervene.

  Djogo struggled to rise as the Lizard bellowed: ‘Scoria shall have blood!’

  From where he lay on the floor of the Furnace, entangled in the net, Drew watched the desperate Djogo struggling to rise. How quickly loyalty can shift, he thought. The slaver hobbled gingerly to his feet, scrabbling for a weapon as Obliss and Haxur advanced. They’ll kill him, Drew mused, for a moment seized by inaction. Here was the man who had tormented him in Haggard and aboard the Banshee. Djogo was a monster; why should Drew care if the trio of gladiators ran the killer through? Finding only h
is whip, Djogo looked up to the balcony.

  ‘Throw me a blade, I beg you!’

  Ignus picked up a blunt knife from his banquet table and tossed it below, the tiny sliver of metal plinking on the hard clay. The crowd roared with laughter as Djogo ignored the insult and cracked his whip overhead, trying to ward off the gladiators.

  ‘Been a while since you fought in the Furnace, Djogo,’ sneered Obliss, avoiding the lash.

  ‘I bet you thought you were done with the arena once the old Goat bought you!’ laughed Haxur as he moved to flank the slaver. Djogo got one more whiplash away before they lunged in and brought him down, spear and trident slashing and stabbing, sending him to the dirt.

  Galtus raised his swords in the air as his companions held Djogo down. The spectators suddenly went wild. Too late, Galtus realized the mob were agitated not by the imminent slaughter of the slaver, but by what was happening directly behind him. He turned quickly, but not quick enough. A powerful lupine leg kicked out, connecting with Galtus’s knee and breaking it at the joint. The leg buckled back at an impossible angle, sending the gladiator tumbling in a fit of wailing agony.

  The transformation had taken place swiftly, Drew’s body now more than accustomed to the change. He rose with the net still wrapped about his dark torso, snarling at the man and roaring in his face. Spittle hit Galtus as he slashed out with his blades, the swords tearing through net and fur as they cut into the Werewolf’s flesh. The net fell away like a tattered cloak as Drew shook it loose, ignoring the fresh wounds. A mighty fist caught the man in the jaw sending him skidding along the dirt, a cloud of dust erupting in his wake.

  The two other gladiators stared at the scene, shocked at the sudden and violent metamorphosis and the dramatic reversal of fortune for their fellow gladiator. Djogo winced, his body chequered with cuts as the gladiators disengaged from their fight with him to face the Wolf. They moved to flank Drew, Haxur banging his spear against his shield, calling for the Wolf to attack while Obliss readied to lunge. Drew feinted to attack Haxur, stepping forward on his left before leaping back towards Obliss. The man was already committed, throwing his weight behind his trident. Knowing what the gladiator’s move would be allowed Drew to leap above the blow, high into the air as his opponent passed beneath.