Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  He sensed Vincent’s vile was still listening, and half expected it to chime in, but the phantom remained unusually silent, as if it knew Hector was approaching the truth. The higher Hector looked up the cavern walls, the more markings he discovered.

  ‘A scripture, perhaps. Or a diary. But who wrote it?’

  Still no responses were forthcoming from the vile. With the greatest mass of symbols being higher up, Hector tottered on tiptoe in the shallow pools, craning his neck to better examine the ceiling. The hanging stalactites were jagged and broken, severed in places where whoever marked the walls had smashed them from the roof in order to reach bare wall. Hector marvelled at the many markings, the symbols crossing over one another, runes illegible, as if the author had gone mad over a tremendous period of time.

  One long black stalactite hung in the ceiling’s centre, directly above Hector’s head, the rock black and gnarly as opposed to smooth and white.

  ‘Different from the others …’ Hector whispered to himself again, when Vincent finally responded.

  You don’t know the half of it, brother.

  Two long, skeletal arms separated from the dark mass like a threadbare fan, foot-long fingers splaying out as a pair of hands yawned open. Hector gasped, quickly realizing the figure was suspended upside down, the arms connecting with the shoulders at the base of the body mass. A bulbous head slowly swung down from where it had been tucked away close to the chest. Hector looked straight into the creature’s face, nose-to-nose, trembling chin to pale, white forehead.

  The face was smooth and hairless, the skin almost translucent. Blue veins were faintly visible, like wisps of pale smoke frozen within marble flesh. It had no nose to speak of, just two angry-looking red holes puncturing the middle of its face. A pair of dark slits widened, revealing cloudy black eyes that stared soullessly at the magister. Then its mouth creaked slowly open. Long teeth, splintered like a graveyard fence emerged from behind blood-red lips, the creature’s fetid breath catching Hector fully in the face. The stench of death was unmistakable, causing the Boarlord to gag, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from those of the creature.

  ‘Welcome.’

  Casper sat on the shingle beach, skimming pebbles into the water. He looked up the shore towards his captain and the Staglord, the two therians having finished consulting the captain’s navigation equipment. The duke held a sea chart over the wooden case, the Sharklord scribbling on to the map feverishly with an inked quill. Casper looked the other way down the beach, spying the queen and her lady.

  Casper had taken quite a shine to Bethwyn. The noblewoman had been happy to talk with the cabin boy, answering his many questions about the fascinating continent of Lyssia. Casper was used to the sea – the mainland was a world he couldn’t wait to explore once the Maelstrom reached Roof.

  The sun had dropped below the horizon, the sky turning a deep indigo as night came on fast. Casper was ready to return to the ship now, regretting not bringing his cloak. Winter seemed especially bitter in the Sturmish Sea. He’d hoped to catch sight of an iceberg so far north, but when Figgis had mentioned how an ice-flow could tear open the greatest warship, that had killed his interest swiftly. He reached down and grabbed at a thin, white pebble but it was rooted in the beach, resisting his attempts to pull it free. Another identical stone popped up beside it, and then another. They looked like razor shells at first glance, four of them side by side. It was only when a fifth emerged and closed tight around his hand that he realized they weren’t pebbles at all.

  They were fingers.

  Casper’s scream was heard on the Maelstrom.

  The creature’s mouth hung open, its voice as clear in Hector’s head as that of his dead brother, although the vile was silent. The pale white head was connected to ragged shoulder blades by the scrawniest length of neck, giving the impression that the skull might tear loose with the slightest provocation. The black eyes remained fixed on Hector as a dark tongue emerged from between the teeth, flickering over the Boarlord’s face like a serpent’s kiss. Hector swayed, staring at his suspended host, moving left to right, wanting to pull away but locked into its gaze.

  ‘Why have you sought me out?’

  ‘I … I …’ stammered Hector nervously, fear snatching the words from his throat. ‘I heard your call.’

  Again the tongue flickered, but still Hector couldn’t step away. He had no trouble understanding the words now, in such close proximity. The telepathy that had drawn him to the island was now abandoned. The language was new and unnatural to Hector, yet somehow he was able to follow and respond.

  ‘But you are not one of my kin. What are you?’

  ‘I’m a Boarlord.’

  ‘Boarlord.’

  There was silence as the creature considered this. Hector glanced at the rest of the body. The beast’s head seemed to glow compared to the rest of its form, skeletal with black skin drawn tight across the bones. The torso was an emaciated bag of bones, while the creature’s feet remained clamped to the ceiling.

  ‘How is it you know the tongue of my kin? I have called them for many moons and they fail to come. Now you hear my call?’

  ‘I can’t explain,’ said Hector, his eyes on the creature’s black pupils once more. They held him like a rabbit in a snare. Hector waved his hands towards the walls.

  ‘This language – I recognize it, though I’ve never studied it. And I know languages. Where are you from?’

  ‘My home is the isle.’

  ‘This island?’

  ‘I dwell here but this is not my home. Our isle is bigger. Much bigger. Another white isle.’

  ‘How did you come here? You mention others, but you seem alone. Are you lost? Separated from your people?’

  ‘People.’

  His host made a sound, somewhere between a growl and a laugh. Hector shivered as if someone had walked over his tomb. He sensed that, fragile though the creature seemed, it was more powerful than anything he’d ever encountered, and that included the Wereserpent, Vala. This beast was born from old magicks, while somehow still being connected to therian-kind like the Boarlord.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you get home?’

  ‘In return for what?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you offer?’

  ‘You have an understanding, Boarlord, that is rare beyond my kin. A magister, are you not? You are not the first of your order who has visited me seeking answers. You know some dark magick, Boarlord, but you only scratch the surface. Tell me: what do you know of the Children of the Blue Flame?’

  Hector had to think for a moment. He was about to shrug and shake his head, about to say that he knew nothing, when his left hand spasmed, involuntarily. He raised it before his face, black leather creaking as the palm and fingers clenched.

  Images flashed: The shaman of the Wyrmwood; the risen corpse of Captain Brutus in the Pits, pale, blue eyes that flashed in the night.

  ‘The undead,’ whispered Hector.

  The creature made the noise again.

  ‘You are no stranger to the Children of the Blue Flame. You do not fear them?’

  Hector puffed his chest out, confident he had the answers to the creature’s riddles. He pulled the glove off his hand, showing the beast the black mark.

  ‘Fear them? I command them!’

  The creature’s tongue snaked out, perhaps a foot in length, stroking the palm of Hector’s hand. He shuddered at the touch but kept his arm up, elbow locked. He couldn’t let the host see his fear.

  ‘You do not understand them, Blackhand. You do not see how they can help you.’

  ‘What is there to understand? How can they help me?’

  Again, the growling laughter from the creature.

  ‘For one who hungers for knowledge, your appetite is easily sated.’

  ‘Tell me what I’m missing, then. Show me what you know!’

  ‘Good,’ said the host.
‘We have our bargain.’

  ‘We do?’ asked Hector. He was unsure where this was heading. Beyond the cave, Hector could hear screaming.

  ‘We have a bargain, Blackhand. I show you what may come to pass, what can be yours.’

  ‘In return for what?’

  ‘An embrace, magister.’

  The creature’s mouth opened wider now, the splintered teeth trembling with anticipation. Again, a scream outside. Shouting from the beach. Hector had no time to waste.

  ‘We have a deal,’ he said. The host’s long, skeletal arms swept down towards him, enormous fingers reaching about Hector’s skull. Its touch was as cold as death itself.

  ‘Get back on the boats!’

  Vega dashed along the shore, grabbing his men and tossing them towards the sea and away from the beach. He was partly transformed, his skin darkening as his hands and teeth sharpened with every step. In the eerie twilight moans rose from the beach as the bleached and buried dead hauled themselves from the shingle. Rocks and pebbles tumbled away from hands and heads emerging from the ground, grasping hungrily at the living.

  Casper held tight on to Vega’s torso like a limpet. He’d been the first to encounter the corpses, but not the last. Amelie and Bethwyn had been dragged to the floor, decayed hands tugging at them. Manfred had dashed to their aid as Vega hauled the boy out of danger, but more of the Maelstrom’s men were falling foul of the creatures.

  One of the cursed souls had risen fully, taking hold of one of Vega’s less agile crewmen. Its skin was parchment thin and clung to every bone on the dead man’s body, drained of all fluid. Tattered breeches hinted at the dead man’s life; perhaps it had once been a sailor from the wrecked ship. Twin blue fires danced in its eyes as it brought its mouth to the screaming sailor’s throat, burying its teeth in warm flesh.

  ‘Move!’ screamed Vega as more of the dead emerged from their pebbly graves. Those who got too close took a blow from his clawed fingers, but Vega had no intention of tarrying. They had to get off the devil’s rock, and quick.

  He waded through the water towards the boats, where the last of his men struggled to clamber aboard.

  ‘Did anyone see Hector?’

  ‘Went round the shore with his men, captain,’ replied a sailor, pointing. ‘Beyond that outcrop.’

  Vega was waist high in the water now and passed Casper to Manfred.

  He looked at the beach, counting around twenty of the shambling dead sailors, a clutch of them gathering around the body of his fallen shipmate and tearing hungrily into him. Their moans echoed across the island.

  ‘Keep away from the shore, but try and get round that outcrop. I’ll go ahead, see if I can find them.’

  Vega dived below the surface and swam, skirting the jagged rocks around the White Isle’s coastline before heading back towards the beach. As he emerged from the waves he could see Hector’s henchmen standing on guard before a tall, thin cave entrance. Both looked startled to see the transformed Sharklord, each of them glancing warily around their small stretch of beach.

  ‘Why all the screaming?’ asked Ringlin nervously. ‘It’s enough to wake the dead!’

  Ibal’s giggles were cut short when Vega threw him a dark and serious look.

  ‘Where’s Hector?’

  ‘The master said he wasn’t to be interrupted,’ said Ringlin cockily, sneering at Vega defiantly. ‘Them’s our orders.’

  ‘Out of my way,’ said Vega, making to push past them. Both men raised their hands to bar his progress, but neither was a match for an angry Sharklord. He punched each in the stomach, grabbed them by their necks and hurled them back into the water just as the first rowboat emerged into the cove.

  ‘I don’t have time for your idiotic loyalty!’ he snarled. ‘Get on the boats. Now!’

  As if on cue, the first of the risen dead crawled around the outcrop, blue eyes glowing in the dark. Ringlin and Ibal needed no further prompting, running to the boat as Vega disappeared into the cave.

  Beyond, in the dark, Vega could hear movements. It was the sound of glass clinking against glass. Gradually the fissure opened into a tall, bell-shaped chamber. The seawater sloshed around his ankles. Vega shook his head, trying to comprehend what he witnessed.

  Hector hung in the air, held tight in the long, black arms of some creature that was suspended from the cavern’s ceiling. The beast was upside down. Its long and thin fingers with bony knuckles reminded Vega of the spindly legs of a spider crab. He could see the bald, white dome of its skull against Hector’s neck, its face buried in his throat, the Boarlord’s head lolling to one side. The glassy clinking sound came from the magister’s satchel, which still hung around his shoulder, banging against his hip as his legs and feet trembled in the air above the rushing tide.

  Vega raised up his hands to grab at Hector’s shoulder. Instantly the beast raised its head, still upside down, revealing its hideous visage with a hiss. Its waxy skin was stretched over its smooth skull, enlarged black eyes narrowing at the Sharklord’s interruption. The lower portion of its head was dedicated to a maw of sharp, splintered teeth that ran red with the Boarlord’s blood. Vega recoiled, the wound bubbling at Hector’s neck.

  ‘Hector!’ cried the Sharklord, as the creature screeched something unintelligible.

  ‘No, Vega,’ said Hector, his voice weak, body trembling spasmodically in the monster’s embrace.

  What? He wants this? Vega shook his head, his mind collapsing at the notion that the young magister might have willingly let the creature attack him. The captain of the Maelstrom had seen men take leave of their minds enough times to know when they needed saving from themselves. He whipped out his cutlass, plunging it swiftly into the monster’s chest.

  The beast thrashed, screeching as it dropped the Boarlord. Hector landed in the swirling water below with a splash. Vega snatched at him with his free hand as he lunged in once more with his cutlass.

  ‘No!’ shouted the Boarlord in vain, but the Wereshark took no notice, standing over the stricken magister as the creature lashed out with its long arms. A thin sheet of black flesh began to appear beneath the beast’s arms and between its fingers, a dark elastic membrane that connected joint to joint. Its head snapped towards Vega, blood pooling in the two sword wounds in its torso. Its movements were frantic as its body continued its change. Vega wasn’t about to wait and see any further transformation – if it was anything like a therian then his cutlass would have caused it no harm at all. He brought his open hand back and swung.

  The white, skeletal head ripped free from the creature’s shoulders with the impact of the Wereshark’s blow. The skull went flying across the cave and shattered against the scarred chalk wall. The decapitated body shook uncontrollably as Vega picked up Hector, the young man’s eyes wild with madness as he stared over the Pirate Prince’s shoulder.

  ‘No,’ the magister whispered as Vega carried him from the host’s cave, out into the cold night.

  1

  The Hawklord’s Tale

  If the survivors of Scoria had hoped for a peaceful crossing to Lyssia, they were sorely disappointed. The further the Banshee sailed north, the more restless the Sabre Sea became. It was a credit to the crew that they handled the conditions without complaint, content to be out from under the cruel hoof of Count Kesslar. Djogo had assumed captaincy of the vessel, a position he’d held under the Goatlord, but now the sailors were cooperative and his whip remained in his belt.

  Slaves were no longer the cargo of the Banshee. Instead, her hold and decks were packed with warriors – former gladiators who had sworn allegiance to the Wolflord. They came from all across the world, each with his own story of enslavement and sorrow to tell. But now their spirits were high, and their loyalty to Drew seemed absolute. His small army numbered over a hundred, each man promising his blade to the cause. Not a moment of the journey was spent idle, with the soldiers training throughout, ensuring they remained combat-re
ady and fighting fit. Drills and exercises were overseen by the Werelords, with Baron Griffyn pulling the strings. When he wasn’t training the Wolf’s army, the Hawklord was deep in conversation with Drew.

  ‘Was my father a good man?’

  Griffyn sat on one side of the enormous window that spanned the rear of the Banshee, with Drew at the opposite end of the sill. The spacious quarters had once been home to Kesslar, but the Goat’s belongings had been stripped from the cabin and now lay on the seabed in Scoria’s harbour. Practical furniture, such as the captain’s desk, chairs, table and bunks had remained in place, now providing a home to Drew’s Werelord companions, the seven therians sharing the cabin and making it their own. It was crowded, but still infinitely better than the labyrinth of the Furnace. While the others slept, the old Hawk and the young Wolf sat quietly, talking in whispered tones.

  ‘I’d love to tell you a string of beautiful lies, Drew, truly I would. Wergar was a hard man. He’d never back out of a fight or argument; he was stubborn, hotheaded, and as tough as Sturmish steel. There was never a more fearsome sight than the Werewolf charging into battle, howling and roaring, scything Moonbrand through the bloody air. You couldn’t imagine a more beautiful sword than your father’s white blade. Wergar had friends and enemies and nothing in between.’

  Griffyn took a sup from the tankard he held in his gnarled hand. ‘I was honoured to be considered his friend.’

  ‘The more I hear, the more he sounds like a brute.’

  ‘He was a man of conviction, Drew, and he was the king.’

  ‘King of Westland though, not the Barebones.’

  ‘It mattered little back then, just as now; whosoever ruled in Highcliff ruled over all the Seven Realms. Consider Westland as the head of a great beast, and the remaining realms the body. It’s long been acknowledged that there’s only one king in Lyssia, and that’s the one who sits on the throne in Highcliff. The Wolves ruled for two hundred years, Drew; nobody ever contested their place until the Lion arrived.’