Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  The tall man smiled.

  ‘Is Ibal also ready?’

  ‘He is, my lord. He’s on deck now, making sure he gets us a spot together on the same landing boat.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hector, fastening the clasps on his bag and throwing it over his shoulder. He was about to pass Ringlin when the tall man placed a hand on his chest, stopping him. Hector’s face instantly darkened.

  ‘Your hands, my lord,’ reminded the Boarguard. Hector glanced back to the bunk, spying the black leather gloves by the pillow.

  Hector smiled nervously, snatching them up and pulling them on. Ringlin watched as his master tugged the glove over the left hand, the black scar now almost filling the palm.

  ‘On the island,’ said Hector, taking hold of the door handle, ‘you and Ibal are to stay close to me. You’ll be my eyes and ears if need be.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You will,’ said the magister, opening the door.

  Two longboats rowed away from the Maelstrom in the twilight, the ship anchored a safe distance from the White Isle. Vega was on the first, accompanying Manfred, Amelie and Bethwyn, as six of his men rowed them ever nearer the rocky outcrop. Behind came Hector’s boat, Ringlin and Ibal helping with the rowing.

  Very clever brother, whispered Vincent’s vile. You’ve got them all dancing to your tune. You’re getting good at this.

  Hector sat at the rear, his knees drawn up, satchel on his lap, arms crossed over it. The men were too busy rowing to hear or notice him muttering to himself.

  ‘Hardly. There was some truth to my suggestion. Stretching one’s legs on solid ground is a good idea.’

  But stretching one’s legs on this solid ground, brother? Why did you not tell them of the voice? Do you fear they’ll think you mad?

  Hector had heard the voice for the last two nights, calling him across the water, teasing him as to the White Isle’s whereabouts. Hector winced, thinking about the sensation. Voice wasn’t the correct word, as no true words were recognizable within the call. More it was a series of images lancing through his mind, feelings and flashes of knowledge tantalizingly out of reach. The strange language was archaic, but somehow Hector recognized it. In his heart he knew the call held the answers to a world of questions, answers that he’d find in no ancient tomes or scrolls. It was connected to the communing, he was sure, the telepathy similar to his bond with Vincent’s vile. But there was a great power behind this; the call promised something. Hector needed to discover what.

  ‘Is it mad to search for the answers to one’s questions?’

  Perhaps if it means putting those you care for in peril, brother. But what do I know? I’m just a wicked spirit sent here to torment you. It’s not my place to suffer from a guilty conscience. I’ll leave that to you …

  The launches drew closer. The rocks thrust skyward at jagged angles, reaching up like bony fingers. The island was perhaps half a mile long and maybe a hundred feet tall at its highest point, a pyramid of splintered stone, bereft of plant life. As the boats searched for a mooring point, the sailors took special care to avoid the rocks beneath the surface, faintly visible through the waves. If the Maelstrom had drawn nearer, such hidden dangers could have ripped a hole in her hull.

  As if to prove this point, the call came up from the lead boat as the broken shell of a wrecked ship was spied. The vessel was on its side, broken masts clinging on to the rocks, a jagged wound in its belly suffering the constant pounding of the waves. Beyond the wreck, the crew could see a rocky stretch of beach, perhaps a few hundred feet long and the perfect place to get ashore.

  Hector felt the call again, an alien tongue rich in old magick, luring him closer. He looked at the crewmen, checking their reactions, convinced they too heard the summons. But the sailors rowed on, oblivious, the message inaudible to all but the magister. As the lead boat hit the shore, Vega leaped off the prow, his booted feet landing on the shingle beach. At this precise moment Hector felt a stabbing pain behind his eyes, as if a blade had been slipped into his skull. He wavered at the rear of the boat, one hand grasping the seat while the other snatched at his temple.

  Images flashed: skin against rock; blood on stone; a black eye opening suddenly. A recognizable word: Welcome.

  Hector opened his eyes, snorting for breath. His throat burned as if scorched by acid. Ringlin glanced up, catching sight of his master’s shocked expression.

  ‘You all right, my lord?’

  You’re not all right, are you, brother? I heard it too. It’s expecting you.

  The second boat hit the beach, the sailors jumping out and dragging it on to the pebbles alongside the first. Amelie and Bethwyn were already ashore, their winter cloaks wrapped tightly around them. Vega stood beside Manfred, looking up and down the length of beach.

  ‘Everybody stay close,’ said the captain. ‘No wandering off. Keep a shipmate at your side at all times. Last thing we need is to lose anyone on this white rock.’

  Casper appeared between the count and the duke, a wooden case on his back. The captain removed it and laid it flat on the beach, opening it up.

  ‘What’s this then, Vega?’ asked Manfred, watching the sea marshal at work.

  ‘Our best bet at working out where in Sosha’s big blue we are,’ said Vega, removing a sextant from the box and placing it gently to one side. The navigational artefacts were all utterly fascinating to Manfred who reached a tentative hand towards one. Vega smacked at the hand, shooing the duke away.

  ‘An astrolabe, Your Grace,’ said Vega. ‘You know how to use one?’

  ‘Um …’ muttered Manfred sheepishly as Amelie watched, smiling.

  ‘Might be best if you leave it to someone who does, eh, Manfred?’ grinned the Sharklord.

  Manfred managed a chuckle, despite the admonishment.

  ‘This is actually the best time of day for me to take a sighting,’ said Vega. ‘It may only be twilight, but the sun’s still up and the first stars are in the sky. I should be able to pinpoint our whereabouts. Seems Hector was paying attention after all when he recommended we stop here.’

  ‘Talking of our Boarlord,’ said Manfred, looking about. ‘Where’s he got to?’

  Hector paced along the shore, Ringlin and Ibal at his side, the landing party left behind around the bluff. The pebbles disappeared now, replaced by sheets of seaweed slicked rock that sloped off beneath the surface of the waves. Hector slipped occasionally, but wouldn’t be slowed.

  ‘Take care, my lord,’ said Ringlin as he caught a stumbling Ibal. ‘It’s treacherous here; you need to watch your footing.’

  Oh bless him, hissed Vincent. See how he cares? He doesn’t want you breaking your neck. Not while they still need paying, anyway!

  Hector didn’t answer either soul, instead keeping up his pace. He could feel the pull, close now, promising answers.

  Images flashed again: the dark; a black curtain; a mouth; a kiss.

  Hector could feel his heart quicken as he slipped over the rocky ledge, dropping into a rockpool up to his knees. He clambered up again, and his gloved hands scrabbled over the white stone as he rounded the next outcrop, revealing another smaller cove beyond. The beach was empty and gloomy, broken in its centre by a tall, thin crevice in the rock. The black crack snaked twenty feet up the stunted chalk cliff, the high-tide water washing in through its entrance and rushing out once again. Hector dropped from the ledge into the water and waded the remaining distance, the Boarguard joining him.

  Hector stood ankle-deep in the water as the sea surged into the cave. Perhaps a foot across, the gap was just wide enough to allow single file entrance. As the tide sluiced back between his feet, he could have sworn he heard the word again: Welcome.

  He turned to his henchmen. Ibal held his sickle in his hand, turning the blade nervously in his grasp while glancing at Ringlin. The tall man simply stared at the thin cave entrance, his serrated long knife still
sheathed.

  ‘You’re going in there, aren’t you?’

  Hector nodded.

  ‘And you won’t follow, unless you hear me scream. Understand?’

  Ringlin and Ibal nodded, the short man letting loose a nervous giggle before throwing a fat hand over his mouth.

  ‘Brenn be with you,’ muttered the tall man.

  Don’t count on it, brother, whispered Vincent as Hector squeezed through the gap. Brenn deserted you long, long ago.

  4

  New Oaths

  Scoria was a changed island. It had once known law and order, albeit the bloodthirsty variety of the Lizardlords’. But now chaos reigned. The mansions of the Black Staircase had been sacked, stripped of all their worth, the merchants and nobles who lived there long gone. When the Werewolf and his allies had leaped on to Lord Ignus’s balcony, the island’s wealthiest had fled the coliseum with their guards and entourages in tow, grabbed what they could carry, and raced to the harbour, sailing on the first ships they found. All else was left to those who remained: the slaves, prisoners and gladiators.

  With the Lizardlords gone, it had been left to Drew and the surviving therians to assume control: there were few on Scoria who would argue with their word.

  Those freed slaves who could work as sailors were guaranteed passage, crewing up on the remaining ships as, one by one, they set sail from Scoria. Those with trades or families also secured transport, with the remainder forced to stay on the island.

  By now, only one ship remained in the harbour, anchored beyond the cove. She was all too familiar to Drew: the Banshee, the commandeered slave vessel that had belonged to Count Kesslar and would now take the young Wolflord home to Lyssia. Drew stood on the harbour walls, staring at the black ship, her decks alive with activity. The boat had been his prison as the Goatlord transported him to Scoria. Now she was going to return him to his homeland.

  ‘She’s ugly,’ came a voice from behind. Drew turned and found Djogo stood there, smiling grimly. ‘Though I’m one to talk.’

  Drew might have laughed if Djogo’s words weren’t so barbed. He looked at the eye patch.

  ‘The eye, Djogo –’ said Drew, trying to find the words to apologize for the wound he’d inflicted back in Haggard.’

  Djogo snorted, ignoring the young therian as he stared at the Banshee.

  ‘Still no sign of Kesslar,’ he said. ‘His face is known throughout Scoria – if he remained he’d have been spotted by now. I think we can assume he was behind the theft.’

  While Drew and his companions had led their revolt against the Lizardlords, Ignus’s private chambers had been burgled, the true wealth of Scoria stolen from his personal vault. The rarest jewels and gems that the Lizard had stashed away down the years, ill-gotten gains from a lifetime trading in the misfortune of others, had been kept secure in a longbox under constant watch. The four warriors who guarded the hoard were found slain, gored from throat to navel or run clean through. Drew had no doubt whatsoever that the horns of the Goat were responsible. The treasure of Scoria was gone, and so was the count.

  ‘Why didn’t he take the Banshee?’ asked Drew.

  ‘Dragging that loot down the Black Staircase would have slowed his escape. By the time he hit the harbour he’d have been with the other rich pigs, struggling to get away. With the Banshee anchored so far from the shore, he must have jumped on to another ship.’

  Drew shook his head.

  ‘The Goat has so much to answer for. How many innocent souls fought and died in the Furnace so he could make a coin?’

  Djogo nodded slowly. ‘He’d have happily harmed those closest to me. There can be no forgiveness.’

  ‘Who would he have harmed?’ said Drew, although he already knew the answer: the Hawklady.

  ‘Kesslar has never tolerated any divided loyalties within his ranks. My – friendship – with Lady Shah would have enraged him if he’d ever known how deep my feelings ran for her. Once he allowed Ignus to throw me into the Furnace, she was on her own, her safety hanging in the balance. Even her own father couldn’t protect her from Kesslar because he was left languishing in the ludus. I would have my revenge on the Goatlord.’

  ‘With respect, Djogo – finding Kesslar’s like searching for a needle in a haystack. Don’t devote your life to hunting Kesslar down. Find a new future, with Shah.’

  Djogo grimaced. ‘She’s a Werelady. What future would she want with a human?’

  ‘It’s clear she cares for you. You’ve a chance at a new beginning now.’

  ‘She needs to choose a therian as her mate. It is her duty as a Werehawk, is it not?’

  ‘I’m not the best person to speak to about duty – I’ve run away from it at every opportunity. Only now do I see what I must do. I need to return to Lyssia.’

  ‘And I’ll be at your side,’ said Djogo, staring at the black ship. Drew glanced sharply at the tall warrior. Did I hear him correctly?

  ‘You’d accompany me?’

  Djogo turned, his face deadly serious, one good eye trained on the Wolf.

  ‘I worked for Kesslar for many years, first as his slave, then as his soldier. I’ve done many things in the Goat’s name that I’m not proud of, terrible things that should’ve seen me put to the sword. The balance needs redressing. By serving you, Drew of the Dyrewood, I can set that in motion.’

  Drew was speechless. Here stood Djogo, Kesslar’s own killer, offering his services. Did Drew want to have such a man associated with him – serving him? Could he stand shoulder to shoulder with the murderer who’d been his mortal enemy? Could Drew trust Djogo?

  ‘I absolve you of any debt you feel you owe me, Djogo. You should go where you wish.’

  Djogo smiled, the expression hitting Drew like a slap to the face. He’d grown too used to seeing the tall warrior sneering.

  ‘I’m not alone in wanting to aid you, Wolflord; there are others who’d benefit from hearing your words.’

  The Werelords had gathered aboard the Banshee, Djogo the only human present. The former slaver stood beside Drew, trying not to look across at where Shah stood with her father, Baron Griffyn. Taboo and Drake stood either side of a large porthole that looked out towards Scoria, while the Behemoth towered behind Krieg.

  Drew faced the assembly. ‘Are you certain this is what you want to do with your freedom?’

  Krieg spoke up. ‘We have our freedom thanks to you. If it weren’t for your courage, we’d still be in the coliseum fighting for our miserable lives, or worse, dead. We’ll stand by you, Drew. We’re all therian brothers – and sisters – of the Furnace.’

  ‘You didn’t treat me like a brother when I arrived,’ said Drew.

  ‘Do you think we were met with open arms when we first came to Scoria, Wolf?’ laughed Drake. ‘You got the measure of the Ape brothers pretty quickly – they’d have killed you in your sleep if you’d sought friendship.’

  ‘If you’d looked for friendship,’ said Krieg, ‘you’d be dead now. You’re tough, Drew, as tough as any of us.’

  ‘This is my fight, though,’ said Drew. ‘Lyssia isn’t your homeland.’

  A huge hand landed gently on Drew’s shoulder and the Behemoth’s deep voice made Drew’s bones rattle. ‘Our homelands are enslaved. Do you not think our people would have sailed to Scoria to free us if they could? We share the same foe. The Catlords must be stopped.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Drew to Taboo. ‘Why would Onyx and the Catlords allow one of their own to fight in the Furnace? They’re your family, aren’t they?’

  The Tiger looked up, baring her teeth. They all looked away, except Drew, who held her gaze.

  ‘I have no family.’

  Drew hastily moved the subject away from Taboo’s story.

  ‘If you join me, you join my mission,’ Drew told the group. ‘Rescue Lyssia from these vicious Cats and restore power to the Lyssians – therians and humans alike.
You’ve all tasted the bitterness of slavery; you know how it feels to live in servitude to another. We must unite with the people, start treating them as our equals. It’s time for us, the Werelords, to serve the people.’ He held out his hand.

  The therians looked at one another, Krieg nodding to each in turn as they bowed their heads in agreement.

  Each of the therians stepped forward, placing their hands on the Wolf’s single hand.

  ‘What happens now?’ said Drew, unsure of what they’d agreed to.

  ‘You sail to Lyssia, and we go with you,’ said Krieg. ‘We fight at your side, Drew. Fight or die. The Furnace is behind us but the battle goes on.’

  Drew smiled and nodded, looking at each of them in turn.

  ‘You have my word, brothers and sisters. When Lyssia is won, we shall return to Bast and your homelands. We’ll free your people from the reign of the Catlords.’

  5

  The Host

  With daylight fading behind him, Hector felt he’d stepped into the dead of night. A little illumination was provided by phosphorescent lichen that pockmarked the cave walls, covering the pale rock beyond the tide-mark’s reach. He’d expected to find sea creatures scuttling away in the shallow rock pools, but like the rest of the island the cave was devoid of life bar the strange lichen. At its widest the cave was ten feet across, the fissure broadening like an opening eye, before closing once more at its rearmost point.

  Where’s your host? teased Vincent. All alone again …

  Hector shook his head, dismissing the vile’s words as his hands played over the chamber’s walls. He leaned close, squinting, tracing his gloved fingertips over the white stone. The pale light revealed strange markings, symbols scrawled into the chalk that resonated with Hector.

  ‘Language,’ muttered Hector to himself. He tilted his head, trying to translate the archaic shapes. To the magister, the markings read vertically, from floor to ceiling – or the other way round – and the more he stared the more they struck a chord with the images that had flashed through his mind’s eye.