Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  Bethwyn and Amelie moved swiftly through the men now, waking them up, the song’s spell broken. The creatures were among them, bringing the men down quickly. They screeched as they attacked, huge eyes closing each time they clamped their jaws around the pirates.

  ‘Into them, lads!’ bellowed Vega as the crew of the Maelstrom rallied, aiding him in the fight. They picked up cudgels, knives, axes – whatever was to hand – weighing in to battle against the monstrous creatures. Duke Manfred charged into the fray, his head lowered, transformed, antlers tossing the beasts from the decks, tearing them in two in the process.

  Feet thundered across the deck around Bethwyn as the crew of the Maelstrom fought back. A clawed hand grabbed hold of her leg, in exactly the same place where she was seized in her nightmare. She shrieked as she fell, the creature crawling up her legs and hips, over her stomach towards her face. Bethwyn raised a hand, claws springing from her fingertips as she slashed down at the monster, tearing strips from its wide face. The huge milky eyes didn’t even blink, its cavernous mouth yawning open as it came to bite her. Putrid, salty breath rolled over her in a tide. She tried to scream but nothing came out, gripped as she was by fear and the beast from the deep.

  Suddenly the creature halted as if on a choke-chain, huge eyes bulging. Bethwyn held it away from her, still gnashing its teeth, but instead of her it bit at the air, snatching and clawing at an invisible foe. Its hands went to its throat, Bethwyn watched as it struggled for breath. Then, with a harsh crack its head spun around, slime and seaweed spraying the young Wildcat as its corpse collapsed on top of her.

  All around her limbs were snapped and severed as gradually Vega’s men pushed the foul creatures back, forcing them off the gore-slicked deck. Through the crowd of fighting men and monsters, Bethwyn saw Hector. Had he saved her? The magister’s left arm was raised, the black-stained palm open towards her, fingers splayed, a look of deadly concentration on his face. He was ten yards away from her. How in the world could he have stopped the beast?

  7

  Hunter’s Moon

  The ludus was quiet, the hour late, and the palace of Ignus asleep. Inside the labyrinth of chambers that riddled the volcano’s cone, the Lizardlord’s gladiators slumbered in bunks and bedrolls within the hot, carved rock. Locked away from the outside world, they were alone with one another, brother warriors who might die at each other’s hand in the morning, for tomorrow Lord Ignus would bless Scoria with the blood of his finest gladiators.

  One solitary figure stood in the paddock, clad in only a loincloth, his skin scarred from battle, staring at the full moon overhead. Drew took in the heavens, the moon huge and bloody in a dark sky. It reminded him of his childhood on the Cold Coast. Mack Ferran would take his boys hunting on nights like this during the autumn equinox; the ‘Hunter’s Moon’ it was known as in Lyssia. He couldn’t think of his father without thinking of the others he’d lost. He said a silent prayer to the old man, willing him to look after his mother in the afterlife. Mack Ferran had saved his life, just when it had appeared that Leopold might execute him, losing his own in the process. The little solace he took from his father’s passing was that the man had absolved him of any guilt he might have felt over his mother’s death. He thought of his brother, Trent, hoping he was far away from whatever war and misery the Catlords had brought upon his homeland. Most of all, he wished he could see him again.

  He grimaced as he eyeballed the moon. There’d been a time when the moon had been something for Drew to fear, the beginning stages of a sickness that had transformed him into the Werewolf, setting him upon his epic path. He’d resented his destiny once, but that seemed long ago. He was the last of the Wolves of Westland, and a survivor. Now the full moon wasn’t to be feared; it was his friend.

  But the Hunter’s Moon had its own meaning for the Scorians. When the moon was full and blood red, their volcano demanded a sacrifice. Tomorrow the fire mountain would be served a feast.

  Standing with a silver collar round his throat, standing before a full moon and resisting the change, was the ultimate test of will for Drew. The Werewolf was dying to rip free. Drew was pushing his body to its limits, toughening it up for what lay ahead. His muscles flexed as he curled his hand into a fist, the stump on his other arm trembling. He could feel the moon’s rays across his flesh, their touch electric. A bank of clouds passed, casting shadows over the paddock and releasing the moon’s grip on Drew momentarily.

  ‘A dangerous game you play, Wolf.’

  Drew hadn’t heard Djogo approach, turning suddenly to find the slaver a few yards away. Drew panted, the strain proving great, his skin slick with sweat on the humid, red night.

  ‘Do you always creep around?’ he rasped to the slaver.

  Djogo didn’t answer, walking closer to stand beside Drew and look up at the sky.

  ‘Have you considered my offer?’ asked Drew, dragging his forearm across his wet brow.

  ‘I have indeed, and I still say you’re a lunatic, Wolf.’

  ‘That’s not an answer. Yes or no, Djogo; I’m not looking for your opinion of my sanity.’

  ‘Your plan is madness.’

  ‘To a broken man, perhaps, but not to a man who has hope in his heart. Which are you, Djogo?’

  The slaver sneered at Drew. ‘Watch what you say. We’re equals now, and wearing that silver collar means you’ve no beast to call upon.’

  ‘You’re right. We are equals. How does it feel to be an owned man?’

  ‘It’s nothing new. I was a slave and gladiator before, until Kesslar freed me from the Furnace. The Goatlord let me rise.’

  ‘And now he’s let you fall. He’s discarded you. If he’d respected you he wouldn’t have handed you over to Ignus!’

  ‘He’ll barter with Ignus to have me released.’

  ‘You believe that? How long have you worked for the Goat? You know what Kesslar’s capable of. Can you really afford to wait?’

  ‘There’s too much to lose …’

  ‘You’ve nothing to lose!’ cried Drew, reaching out to grab the man’s arm.

  ‘I’ve everything to lose,’ spat Djogo, shoving Drew away angrily. ‘There are more ways to wound a man than with a sword.’

  Drew shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Djogo turned his back on Drew. ‘He can hurt those I care about.’

  Drew considered the man’s words. ‘You fought here for many years, Djogo. You know the Furnace and the palace better than anybody. The old master – Griffyn – I’ve seen you with him. You care about him, don’t you?’

  Djogo said nothing.

  ‘I don’t know what your relationship is. I don’t care, truth be told. You and I have been enemies since we first met. I don’t see how the pair of us being gladiators now makes us brothers. Tomorrow I fight back, and I hope those who share my desire to be free of Scoria will stand up and be counted.’

  Djogo paced back to the sleeping chambers silently. Drew watched him go, wondering if he’d angered the man further. He looked up. The sky was clear again, the moon casting her spell over the young Werewolf once more. He snarled through clenched teeth as he basked in her cold, white light.

  8

  A World Away

  The ground was hard and uneven beneath his bedroll, promising an uncomfortable night’s sleep, but Trent Ferran didn’t care. He stared at the Hunter’s Moon overhead. Not so long ago they’d run through fields and meadows, stalking deer under the bright night sky: Trent, his father, and his brother, Drew. He sucked his teeth, thinking of the young man who had ruined his life. He sighed, closing his eyes and willing the memories from his mind.

  This had been the first day for weeks that he and his men had seen no combat. While his companions seemed indifferent, it was a relief for Trent. He’d joined the Lionguard for one reason: revenge. He hadn’t signed up to burn people out of their farms and turn wives into widows. Of the hundred or so fighters he t
ravelled with, the majority were Bastians. They were emotionless, carrying out their officer’s instructions to the letter and never breaking rank. The Lionguard were sadly less disciplined than their southern counterparts, recklessly meting out their own justice in Prince Lucas’s name.

  It was only a matter of time before Lucas was made king: the Pantherlords from Bast, Onyx and Opal, would ensure that. While Onyx marched across Lyssia, Opal was in Highcliff watching over the prince’s education while he awaited confirmation of his ascension. Trent had met Onyx briefly in the Horselords’ plundered court of High Stable. The Beast of Bast cut a monstrous figure, a giant among men. It chilled Trent’s heart to imagine how fearsome the transformed Werepanther might look in battle. King Leopold had been slain in the fight for Highcliff, and Queen Amelie had been kidnapped by Duke Manfred and Count Vega, two Werelords whose names now topped the kingdom’s most-wanted list alongside Drew’s. Lucas was now without a father or a mother. With Lyssia in such a state of flux, the vacuum was waiting to be filled. As Trent’s fellow Redcloaks often said, the sooner Lucas was crowned the better.

  ‘Asleep so soon?’

  Trent opened his eyes, the Catlord Frost was standing over him. He sat up, instantly alert.

  ‘Resting my eyes is all, sire.’

  ‘Did your blade get blessed as I said?’

  ‘With silver, sire.’ Trent made to stand up.

  Frost waved his hand, dropping on to his haunches beside the youth.

  ‘Drop the titles, Trent. Frost will suffice. I like you, and see no need for you to jump to attention whenever I’m close by. You’re not like the other Lyssians. You’re honest and true, like the best Bast has to offer.’

  Trent felt his heart swell at Frost’s words, recognition for his efforts warming his spirit. He felt honoured that the Catlord could be so informal in his company. He began to relax a little.

  ‘Any word from Westland?’ asked Trent.

  ‘Onyx makes huge strides. The Great West Road is ours already, and whatever resistance the Wolf’s army had provided is all but broken. Our main force marches east, through the Dalelands. I don’t expect them to find much of a fight there. The real battle lies ahead with the Barebones and the Dyrewood. This war will be over once we crush the Stags and the Bears.’

  Frost smiled as he stared at the moon, pink eyes glowing with an unearthly light.

  ‘Does it have an effect on you, like the Wolf?’ Trent asked.

  ‘The moon? It affects all therians in different ways. The more passive Werelords find calm and clarity under her light. For the more aggressive, it stirs the blood, fires passion and power.’ He clapped his hands. ‘I could fight an army of Lyssian turncoats presently without breaking sweat,’ he laughed. ‘As for the Wolves? Different beasts altogether. They’re connected to the lunar cycles more than any of us. I’m too young to have ever faced Wergar, but those who fought him said he was at his most ferocious while the moon was full.’

  ‘Is Drew really the last one left?’

  ‘The last of the Grey Wolves, most certainly. But your queen, Amelie, she’s a White Wolf of the north. They were always fewer in number, so I’m informed, but fled their home of Shadowhaven when Leopold came to power. There may be some left, vagabonds. But I’d be surprised if any White Wolves still survive, to be honest. The queen and Drew may be the last of the true Werewolves.’

  ‘We’ll find him, Frost. I promise.’

  The albino put an arm around the youth. ‘I’m sure we will. If anyone can sniff the beast out it’s you. It sickens me to think of what he did to those who raised him as their own. The Wolves of Westland are a vile breed – a blight on your land. They need to be extinguished. Utterly.’

  Trent nodded. ‘He won’t stray far from Lady Gretchen,’ he promised Frost. ‘He stole her from Prince Lucas once and no doubt he’ll try it again. We just need to find her, quickly.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Trent,’ said Frost, clapping his back. ‘And when we do, hiding in Calico no doubt, I want you by my side. Then your blade can truly be blessed, with the Wolf’s blood.’

  Trent’s smile was bittersweet. ‘That’s the greatest gift I could receive.’

  Frost held his open palm out, head bowed and voice low. ‘You have my word, Trent. Lead us to him and the Wolf is yours.’

  Trent took Frost’s hand and shook it heartily.

  ‘Now rest, my friend. We’ve another march tomorrow. The Longridings is riddled with the Wolf’s allies. The Werefox may be heading to Calico, but who knows where she might be hiding along the road as she makes her way there. We can leave no stone unturned.’

  Trent nodded as the Catlord rose gracefully before stalking away through the tall grass towards his tent.

  ‘So you think you’re his favourite now?’

  The voice was Sorin’s, from his bedroll nearby.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ muttered Trent, relaxing on to his mat. He pulled his blanket back up, staring up at the moon once again.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Ferran, you’re a good soldier. But a Werelord calling you his friend? That’s laughable, you have to admit!’

  Trent tried to block Sorin’s words from his head, but he went on.

  ‘He’s plumping you up, making you feel more than you are. You’re a grunt, Ferran, like the rest of us. Don’t think just because his lordship says you can call him “Frost” he means anything he says.’

  Sorin rustled through the grass towards him, his voice low.

  ‘He doesn’t trust you,’ he said jealously. ‘At the end of the day you’re the Wolf’s brother. When push comes to shove, Frost worries you’ll betray him, betray all of us.’

  Trent closed his eyes, but Sorin’s words were poisonous. He heard Sorin crawl closer, his voice inches away when he next spoke.

  ‘I think he’s right.’

  Trent was out of his bedroll and on top of Sorin in an instant, hunting knife at the other’s throat. Sorin chuckled, his eyes wide as he looked down. Trent followed his gaze to where Sorin held his own knife to Trent’s belly, ready to be driven home.

  ‘You’ve got me wrong,’ spat Trent angrily. ‘I want the Wolf dead.’

  ‘So you say,’ snarled the broken-nosed captain of the Lionguard.

  ‘Nobody has more reason to see Drew Ferran dead than I!’

  Sorin pushed him off, the knife fight over before it had begun.

  ‘It might be argued … Ferran,’ said Sorin, slinking back towards his bedroll. ‘That nobody would have more reason than you to see him live.’

  Trent collapsed back on to his mat, shaking his head. Sorin knows nothing. Drew’s a monster. Monsters need to be killed. What did Sorin know about him? Trent tried to push his captain’s malignant words away, but they just kept coming back at him.

  9

  Bitter Blows

  ‘Sirens?’

  Duke Manfred was incredulous. He stood beside the two Wereladies in the captain’s quarters.

  ‘Some call them that,’ said Vega from behind his desk. ‘Others call them the Fishwives. Either way I thought they were creatures of myth before last night.’

  ‘They were vile,’ shuddered Queen Amelie, her arm around Lady Bethwyn. It was dawn, but the previous night’s encounter was still all too fresh in their minds.

  Hector winced at Amelie’s mention of the word ‘vile’.

  If she only knew the true meaning of the word now, eh brother?

  Hector spoke over Vincent’s whispered words. ‘They were like no therians I’ve seen before.’

  ‘Some therians turn their back on their human form, fully embracing the beast,’ said Vega. ‘Legend has it the Sirens did that very thing; the once noble wives of the Fishlords swam to the seabed, accepting their bestial nature totally. Is it really so unlikely, Hector? Didn’t you face and defeat the Wereserpent, Vala, in the Wyrmwood not so long ago?’

  Hector nodd
ed, his thoughts returning to the encounter with the giant Snake. He’d had Drew at his side then, his tower of strength. It seemed a distant memory.

  ‘How was it that some were affected by their song while others weren’t?’ asked the magister.

  ‘I can’t explain it,’ said Vega, ‘although I have a theory. The Sirens of nautical mythology can only enchant males, not females. Alluring beauties, so tales tell. If these beasts are in any way connected to those of legend, that would explain why Queen Amelie and Lady Bethwyn were unaffected by their dreadful chorus.’

  ‘But their song had no effect on you, count,’ said Amelie.

  ‘Hazarding a guess, perhaps it’s because I, like them, am a beast of the sea. Maybe the Sealords are immune to their enchantments?’

  ‘And the boy, Casper?’ added Manfred, pointing out the only other member of the crew who had survived the Siren song.

  Vega shrugged. ‘He’s still a child, not yet grown. Maybe that’s why he was spared their spell.’

  ‘The Sturmish Sea is a dreadful place,’ muttered Manfred. ‘The sooner we reach land the better. Where are we, Vega?’

  The count looked at the map on his desk, shaking his head.

  ‘Hard to say. These are waters I’ve never ventured through. My charts are old and that cursed fog has thrown out our navigation. I reckon we’re somewhere north of Tuskun, but I’d wager nothing!’

  ‘Manfred’s right,’ said Amelie. ‘We need to find the mainland soon. Who knows what else lurks in this awful sea?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ sighed Vega, scratching his head and running his hand through his long dark locks. He stretched in his chair, exhausted from the night’s activities, as was everyone.