Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  Having assessed the field, Drew chose his opponent.

  With a couple of bounds he bowled into Balk, hitting him square in the back and the two of them went down.

  ‘Dog!’ snarled the Ape. ‘The Cat can wait! Let’s see the colour of your blood!’

  Drew didn’t answer, squirming out of reach of the Ape’s mighty arms. He’d made a mistake, choosing to wrestle the monster. Balk bit into his shoulder. Drew roared, snapping his own jaws down the side of the Ape’s face. A black ear came away with a wet rip. Wailing, Balk disengaged, lifting a hand to the wound.

  ‘I see yours is red,’ spat the Werewolf, poised for the next attack. Then suddenly an arm slid over his throat from behind, muscles flexing as Arik snatched hold. I thought he was fighting Stamm! Drew’s head thundered as the blood struggled to find a way through his restricted arteries.

  Balk was about to join the attack when his jaw cracked, a flying kick from Taboo sending his head recoiling. Teeth flew as the Tiger landed, panting hard. The Ape went for her, drawn away from his brother’s fight with the Wolf.

  Drew was seeing lights – fading fast. With a desperate burst he yanked his left arm free of Arik’s other fist, burying the trident dagger in the Ape’s forearm. The beast roared, releasing its grip, the dagger tearing a lump of flesh with it. The enraged Ape smashed his other arm down on to Drew’s back, flattening him. He rolled over in time to see both Arik’s arms raised, fists curled and about to strike.

  Then without warning, the horns of the Buffalo, Stamm, crashed into Arik’s back, the two Werelords going down beside the stunned Drew. He saw the damage the Apes had done to Stamm, one of his arms broken and limp at his side, his torso ripped and torn. Balk now returned to the fracas, while some distance away, Drew saw Taboo lying wounded and still.

  Seizing Stamm’s curling horns, Balk hauled the Buffalo’s head up, holding the neck exposed. From beneath, Arik opened his jaws wide as his teeth connected with Stamm’s throat. Drew caught a despairing look in Stamm’s eyes as his neck was torn open.

  Drew pounced, his heart full of rage. He had only known Stamm from their few exchanges in the ludus, but the Buffalo’s valiant assistance had struck deep. Balk tried to bat Drew away, but the Wolf wouldn’t be halted. He took three, four more punches as he dragged the Ape off Stamm, the butchered Buffalo landing on Arik beneath him. The fifth punch came and Drew opened his mouth, closing his jaws around Balk’s fist. Bones, knuckles and tendons crunched as he ground his muzzle closed.

  Balk screamed, trying to prise the Wolf’s jaws apart with his other hand, but Drew’s teeth snapped together, taking four fat fingers off with two quick bites. The bloodied Ape fell, kicking at the Wolf, but Drew was too swift, his clawed hand snatching hold of Balk’s jaw. The monster grasped at him with broken, bloody hands, but Drew’s grip was solid. He raised his powerful leg and brought his foot down hard on Balk’s chest. A sickening crunch sounded above the noise of combat in the Furnace, and the Wereape lay dead in the dust.

  Drew turned to see Arik struggle from beneath the slain Buffalo, letting loose a despairing wail at the sight of his brother’s demise. The Ape bounded high, blotting out the sun as he came down on to Drew.

  The Werewolf readied himself for the impact, but the expected blow didn’t come from above, but from the side –Drew was barged clear of Arik’s attack. Krieg had replaced him, taking the Ape’s barrage. The two went down, Arik landing directly on top of Krieg with a wet crack, throwing a cloud of red dust into the air. The combat between the Ape and Rhino was over instantly. As the cloud settled, Drew could see Krieg’s huge horn, standing proud from the silverback of the Wereape. Krieg pushed him back, the dead Arik sliding off his horn into the bloody dust.

  ‘Thank you,’ Drew whispered, embracing Krieg. Taboo stood nearby, battered but not beaten. The bloodthirsty crowd were wild with excitement. Ignoring the mob of onlookers, the three therians walked across the Furnace towards the two who still fought.

  The Behemoth and Drake still battled, trading blows, but not dealing any true damage to one another. This combat took place beneath the viewing balcony of the palace, but all eyes had been fixed upon Drew’s battle.

  ‘Enough!’ yelled Ignus. ‘We have our victors!’

  Drake and the Behemoth parted as Drew joined them, Krieg and Taboo following.

  ‘The fire mountain has been appeased!’ cried Ignus as the audience cheered. ‘We are blessed for another year, the glorious death of these noble Werelords has sated Scoria’s hunger!’

  The Lizardlord was so busy performing to the crowd that he paid little attention to the five therians who stood below. Drew stepped in front of the Behemoth and nodded to him.

  ‘You’re sure?’ asked the Weremammoth.

  Drew smiled, grimly. The Behemoth bent his head, allowing Drew to clamber on to his tusks, crouching low.

  ‘Today the Furnace has witnessed the greatest contest Scoria has ever seen!’ continued Ignus, arms open and enjoying his oratory. ‘The fire mountain has had her fill of blood, both human and therian!’

  The Weremammoth swung his head, tossing Drew skywards, the lycanthrope springing from his haunches to gain extra speed flew through the air, towards the balcony.

  ‘Not quite!’ he shouted, landing on the balcony with deadly grace to a chorus of frantic screams. ‘Your fire mountain is still thirsty!’

  2

  The Upper Claw

  The guests on the balcony fled as the Werewolf of Westland rose to his full height. Instantly the palace guards rushed him, sending him leaping clear on to the stone banquet table. Plates and goblets scattered beneath his clawed feet, clattering across the floor as the rich and powerful of Scoria screamed. The guards fanned out, trying to anticipate the Wolf’s next move, but Drew was on the prowl, making his way closer to Lord Ignus who was already changing. The Lizardlord shook off his robe, his long neck ballooning as it stretched and twisted, mouth gaping open. His skin turned a mottled green and hooked, black claws burst from his fingers as a reptilian tail snaked out behind him. Panic increased in the room as Drake landed on the balcony to join the fray, and then Taboo followed her brother therians into the palace.

  Below, the Furnace gates broke open. Scoria’s human gladiators surged through, carrying poles, ladders, anything that might help them clamber out of the arena. Deep within the walls of the coliseum, fighting had broken out as others chose different escape routes. The cage doors that had kept them imprisoned had been mysteriously unlocked, allowing them to surge over any astonished soldiers that dared stand in their way. The wild beasts were freed from their pens, running riot through the corridors that encircled the arena. Soldiers, civilians – all fell beneath their teeth and claws. The breakout had caught the Scorians by surprise.

  Drake and Taboo darted between the guards’ spears, striking home with ease, filling the air with a fine red spray. The guards, so used to bullying manacled slaves around, struggled to hold the therian warriors back. With the guards preoccupied, that just left Drew facing the Lizardlord.

  ‘Where’s Kesslar?’ snarled Drew as Ignus stood transformed, bathed in the sulphurous steam that billowed through the floor grate. His eyes bulged, thin rubbery lips peeling back to reveal jagged teeth.

  ‘Kesslar isn’t your concern, Wolf! You’ll put your collar back on if you know what’s good for you!’

  Ignus’s three siblings emerged through the yellow mist behind him, Lizards like their brother. None looked lean or fit like Drew and his companions. The Lizards of Scoria had grown used to a life of gluttonous luxury, feeding their addictions with whatever took their fancy. One was a tall, skinny wretch, while his fat brother loped beside him. The third one was top heavy with stunted legs, and then there was Ignus, their glorious leader, too used to letting others fight his battles.

  The Lizardmen rushed Drew, all four attacking in clumsy unison. These weren’t the odds I’d hoped for, thought Drew, bounding over
their heads as they dived across the stone table. He landed with a clang on the grille, just behind the slowest of them. He lashed out his leg, clawed feet tearing the top-heavy one’s hamstring in two and putting him out of action.

  Down to three.

  The fattest Lizard leaped back over the table, directly on top of Drew, but the Werewolf was ready for him, catching him on his clawed feet. His knees compressed up to his chin as the monstrous mouth snapped inches from his face and scaly hands clawed at Drew’s throat. The grille vent groaned and buckled beneath the impact of their combined weight. Drew snarled and kicked back, the fat Lizardlord’s eyes widened as he was propelled through the air, disappearing over the balcony’s edge.

  Two down. Two to go.

  Drew jumped away from the grille, landing before the stone throne. Ignus and his last sibling separated, the lanky one snatching a silver spear from a fallen guard.

  ‘It’s been a while since I slew another therian,’ the Lizard rasped, Ignus grinning at his side.

  ‘I’d like to say the same,’ said Drew.

  The Lizard lunged, but Drew parried the spear away with the trident dagger. The reptile came a second time, and Drew knocked him the other way. Snarling, the Lizard put his weight behind the spear, stabbing high at Drew’s chest. The Wolf caught hold of the spear in the crux of the trident dagger, halting its progress. His foe looked shocked, as Drew bit down on the wooden pole, snapping the gleaming blade off. Before he could react, Drew buried the spearhead in the Lizard’s chest, the hapless therian still clutching the broken spear shaft as black blood gushed from his bosom.

  And then there was one.

  Ignus screamed to his men for assistance, but they were occupied by the therian gladiators. Silver weapons or not, none were seasoned warriors like Taboo and Drake. The pile of Scorian corpses grew.

  Drew was about to offer Ignus a chance to surrender, to end the bloodshed, but he was spared the speech. Ignus ducked low, flicking his tail out and round, whipping Drew’s legs from beneath him. The Wolf toppled backwards, crashing on to the throne. Before he could rise, Ignus had leaped, straddling him, pinning Drew to the chair.

  The Wolf struggled to escape the Lizard’s hold, but the hooked claws were buried in his arms, fixing him in place. He snapped his jaws at Ignus’s reptilian face, the Lizard’s eyes blinking as a wicked grin spread across his reed-thin lips. The Lord of Scoria’s bony forehead came down like a hammer-blow, cracking Drew’s muzzle and leaving the Werewolf stunned. He was aware of the Lizard’s mouth gaping open, its jaws separating, but he was helpless to stop it.

  Darkness enveloped him, the world hot, wet and terrible. With sick dread he realized his head was in the Lizardlord’s gullet. He tried to shake it loose, open his jaws to bite the monster from the inside, but the Lizard’s constrictive mouth was too powerful, too tight. He could smell Ignus’s stomach acids, noxious and overwhelming, heavy with the stench of bacteria and infection. The monster meant to suffocate him, and was close to succeeding.

  Drew’s feet scrabbled at the base of the chair, struggling for purchase on the polished stone floor. His clawed toes found a crack in the flags. Digging in with all his might, he pushed back, straightening his legs. Slowly, the stone throne rocked. With each push the chair shifted looser off its back legs. He felt the Lizard’s tongue flickering over his closed jaws inside its throat. A final shove sent the throne back hard, crashing into the wall behind before lurching forward, sending Wolf and Lizard flying from the seat.

  They landed on the grilled floor, the iron grate buckling again. Drew’s arms were now free and he jabbed with the trident dagger and clawed with his hand as he pounded Ignus’s leathery torso. The Lizard choked and gagged, coughing the strangulated Werewolf’s head from its ballooned throat. Drew shook the reptilian Werelord’s saliva from his eyes, glancing up in time to see the stone throne rocking back towards them, sheering from its plinth.

  The Wolf rolled clear on to the polished stone floor as the throne crashed down on to Ignus. It landed with a bone-crunching clang, metal screeching as the grate tore free from its housing. Lizard, throne and twisted grille all disappeared into the sulphurous hole, the screaming of iron against rock mixing with the wails of Ignus as the Lord of Scoria plummeted to his doom.

  Black smoke rolled through the palace of the Lizardlords and fires raged deep within the ludus, the house of the gladiators burning out of control. The corridors that encircled the Furnace were a scene of carnage and the sounds of combat still rang from the vaulted walls. An enormous lion lay on a pile of bodies, chewing on a corpse as if relaxing with its kill in the wild. Screams echoed through the thoroughfare as the coliseum burned.

  Drew and his companions emerged into the sunlight. The air was parched and dry, unlike the humid, chemical atmosphere in the throne room, and Drew could feel his sweat already drying. He looked at Taboo and Drake at his side, his fellow therians shifting back to their human forms. All three bore many wounds, but most were superficial.

  They headed away from the smoking palace, the curved black and white walls cracking as the fires raged at their backs. Huge portions of the terracotta roof broke away, crumbling into the arena, as Ignus’s coliseum threatened to collapse in on itself. The survivors of the battle, a crowd of gladiators and slaves, had gathered by the gatehouse at the top of the Black Staircase.

  ‘Friends, we feared the Furnace had taken you!’

  Krieg smiled as he greeted them. Beside him stood the Behemoth and a hundred or so fighters.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile,’ said Drew, shaking the Rhinolord’s hand. The greeting was warm and earnest. Drew looked up at the Behemoth, nodding respectfully.

  ‘Thank you. We couldn’t have done that without you.’

  ‘We couldn’t have done that without many people,’ said the Behemoth, standing to one side as three other figures emerged from the crowd.

  Shah stood with her arm around Griffyn, the wizened trainer weary as he leaned on her. Drew could see the family resemblance now, the same shaped nose and sharp cheekbones.

  ‘Your grandfather?’

  ‘Father,’ corrected Shah.

  Drew was shocked. He’d have put sixty years between the old man and his daughter. He could only imagine how hard the trainer’s life must have been beneath the boot of Ignus.

  ‘You risked a great deal unlocking the gates in the house of gladiators, Shah. If Ignus or Kesslar had discovered your complicity, you’d have been killed.’

  ‘Strange how the actions of one can inspire others, Drew of the Dyrewood,’ she said, smiling as she glanced up at the other man beside her. The one-eyed warrior looked down at Drew.

  ‘Come, Wolf,’ said Djogo. ‘We need to get you back to Lyssia.’

  3

  The White Isle

  It might have been missed had it not been for the keen eyesight of the cabin boy, Casper, perched atop the Maelstrom’s crow’s nest. Count Vega extended his spyglass to better see the island – a barren stack of chalk-white rocks that erupted from the grey waters. It looked unremarkable, a pile of bleached bones floating on the Sturmish Sea, the flesh picked bare from a long-dead leviathan.

  ‘It’s land all right,’ said Vega, ‘but I’ve seen more life hanging from a gallows.’

  ‘Can we not alight there, even if only briefly?’ asked Baron Hector.

  Vega stared at the Boarlord as if he’d grown another head. ‘For what possible reason?’

  ‘This life at sea is all too familiar to you and your crew, Vega. You forget that myself, Manfred and the ladies are landlubbers, as your crew so eloquently put it.’ Hector smiled. ‘Solid ground beneath our feet would make a welcome interruption to our journey.’

  Vega rubbed his chin and looked at Manfred. ‘You feel this way too?’

  The Duke tipped his head to one side. ‘To be honest I’d rather we kept going until we hit the mainland. The longer w
e’re in these foul waters the less safe I feel. Hanging around out here we’re giving Ghul and Slotha every opportunity to capture us.’

  Hector turned to the Staglord, opening his gloved hands in a show of reasoning.

  ‘Vega did say we needed to plot a new route, calculate where we are. Where better than a spot of dry land? Don’t worry about our enemies. Anyone who follows us through that green fog will struggle to emerge on this side anywhere near us. Besides, think of Queen Amelie and Lady Bethwyn. Wouldn’t this provide a pleasant, albeit brief, distraction from their journey?’

  The Duke looked over his shoulder as if the queen might suddenly appear. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw.

  ‘Hector may have a point there.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Hector, smiling as he clapped his hands together. ‘Then it’s agreed. We stop to take some air. Really, what harm can it do?’

  There was a knock at Hector’s cabin door. He hurriedly threw the blanket over the satchel on his bunk.

  ‘Enter.’

  The door swung open and the tall figure of Ringlin stepped in, ducking beneath the low door frame.

  ‘Close it behind you,’ said Hector, waiting for his man to shut the door before pulling his blanket back once again. The Boarguard rogue looked over the magister’s shoulder, watching Hector as he packed his bag. Hector’s ungloved hands rolled bottles and jars over the rough mattress, glass containers clinking as they collided, his fingers hurriedly sorting what was needed. There was also the narrow mahogany box containing the silver arrow that Bergan had entrusted to him in Highcliff. Hector’s hands hovered over the black candlestick, fingers brushing the dark wax before stowing it in the satchel.

  ‘You’re packing a lot of gear there if you’re only going to stretch your legs, my lord,’ observed Ringlin slyly.

  ‘If I were visiting the island for a constitutional, I’d hardly need you accompanying me, Ringlin.’