Drew chewed his thumb as he stared out of the window, watching the churning waves as they flashed moonlight in the Banshee’s wake.
‘So you knew Bergan, Manfred and Mikkel then? Were they your friends too?’
Griffyn smiled. ‘They were once.’
‘What changed?’
‘Allegiances,’ sighed the old Hawk. ‘I’m sure you know all about Bergan’s quandary when Leopold took power. He and the Staglords all played their parts in persuading Wergar to surrender his crown. They didn’t know the Lion would go back on his word, but each of them deserted Wergar, and I hope each feels the pain of that betrayal to this day.’
‘You’ve got them wrong, Griffyn. They’re good men; they were my Wolf’s Council, my advisers after we took Highcliff. It’s cruel to hope they still suffer for something that happened so long ago.’
Griffyn looked surprised. ‘I apologise, Lord Drew. I didn’t mean to offend, but my opinion stands. I’ve earned it.’
‘How?’
Griffyn rose stiffly, unfastening his jerkin.
‘I was a loyal Kingsman, right until the last, to the moment Leopold chopped off your father’s head. And I continued to remain loyal afterwards.’
Drew flinched at mention of Wergar’s execution. He’d never known the man, but they were still joined by the bond of blood. The old Hawklord shook off his jerkin, popping the buttons of his shirt. Drew shifted uncomfortably.
‘The Hawklords would – and did – die for your father, Drew. We were his staunchest allies and one of the fiercest weapons Wergar had in his arsenal. ‘Death from above’ our enemies would scream when we soared into battle.’
Griffyn’s face was wistful as he shrugged off the shirt.
‘The other Werelords bowed and swore fealty to whoever sat on the throne. Not so the Hawklords, even after the Wolf and his pack were slain. We remained loyal to the dead king. This enraged the Lion, so much so that he made an example of me.’
Griffyn turned, the moonlight that streamed through the window illuminating his back. Two enormous scars ran from his shoulders down to the base of his spine, great discoloured swathes of pale, colourless skin. There was nothing neat or orderly about the old wounds, the torn flesh undulating, in and out, jagged and angry where his skin had been hacked away many years ago.
‘Leopold took my wings. They held me down in the Court of Highcliff, the stench of your murdered and burned family still thick in the air, while the Bear and Stags watched. All the Werelords were there: Horses, Rams, Boars, the lot of them. The Lion took a silver blade to my beautiful wings. He carved them off.’
Drew was nauseous. He turned away, unable to look at the Hawklord’s awful scars. The image was there in his mind: Leopold holding Griffyn down while he sawed the Werehawk’s wings from his back. When he looked back, Griffyn was already rebuttoning his shirt.
‘So, as you can imagine, I find it difficult to forgive after all these years.’
‘I’m sorry, my Lord, I didn’t …’
‘You weren’t to know,’ said Griffyn, dismissing Drew. ‘Bergan and Manfred are good men who were put in an awful situation. They escaped the Lion’s wrath with their bodies intact but their pride battered. I might not have suffered this fate if I hadn’t been so stubborn.’
Griffyn grimaced as he continued. ‘Leopold’s Lionguard dragged me back to Windfell, accompanied by the lickspittle Skeer – one of my Hawklord brothers – parading me before my people as a warning to all; if any Hawk should show their wings again, they were signing their own death warrant. Skeer was the only Hawk who sided with the Lion, happily swearing allegiance long before Wergar’s murder. I was forced to deliver the message on behalf of Leopold. While the Lionguard displayed my severed wings to the Hawklords I recounted Leopold’s decree, outlawing my people’s falconthropy.’
‘Falconthropy?’
‘The therianthropy of the Hawklords, Drew. You have your lycanthropes, felinthropes, caninthropes and the like. The Hawks are the falconthropes.’
‘Leopold outlawed your transformation?’
‘That’s right,’ said Griffyn, sitting down again on the windowsill. ‘In addition, for their treasonous behaviour, the Hawklords were forbidden to return to the Barebones. We were banished, chased from our homeland, to be executed should we return. Leopold’s army put Windfell under Skeer’s command, and I was kept in court as a plaything for the new baron, a reminder to our people of what insubordination led to.’
‘Where are the Hawklords now?’
‘Dead. Gone. Forgotten. I honestly don’t know. Leopold and Skeer destroyed my people. Windfell was emptied of Hawklords overnight, never to return. We were powerful and great in number, manning towers and keeps along the spine of the Barebones, acting as commanders and scouts in every army of the Seven Realms. But Leopold put us to the sword.’
‘But Scoria? How did you get from Windfell to the Furnace?’
‘That’s where our mutual acquaintance Kesslar comes in,’ said the Hawk, smacking his bony hand against the window frame.
‘Kesslar and Skeer were friends from long, long ago. Opportunists, liars, thieves – they had so much in common. Kesslar was a frequent visitor to Windfell, the only place he was welcome, having taken advantage of his brother therians’ kindness in the other courts of the Seven Realms. The Goat took a shine not just to me, but my daughter.’
Griffyn paused, glancing towards where Shah slept in her bunk.
‘How old was she?’
‘Twelve, just a child. Kesslar made Skeer an offer and the old Falcon couldn’t say no. Deal done, the Goat had me shipped over to Scoria to fight in the Furnace, while he kept Shah as his own.’
Drew tried to imagine what kind of life that must have been for the young Shah. She’d been in a dark mood since he’d met her, and even with their freedom secured, a shadow still hung over Shah’s head.
‘She must have been terrified.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, but we Hawklords are made of strong stuff. After four years in the Furnace, I’d earned the respect of my masters and freedom from the arena. I’d earned gold for my achievements, as well as lodging of my own away from the slaves and gladiators. While I moved into the ludus to train the Lizards’ gladiators, my daughter was by then working for Kesslar, the eyes and wings that got him into places nobody else could reach.’
‘How did she and Djogo come to know one another?’
‘She saw him fight in the Furnace,’ said the Hawklord. ‘He was the greatest human gladiator I ever trained. When Kesslar bought him from Ignus, he and Shah began to spend time together, aboard this ship while Kesslar travelled, picking up slaves. A fondness grew, surrounded by the misery the Goatlord thrived upon.’
‘She seems troubled,’ whispered Drew, staring at her dark form in the recesses of the cabin.
‘If she could get her talons into Kesslar, she’d tear his throat out.’
‘Because of what he did to you?’
‘No,’ sighed the Hawk. ‘Because of what happened to her child.’
‘Child?’ gasped Drew.
‘Hush, lad,’ said Griffyn, his voice low. He edged closer along the window seat towards Drew.
‘She and Djogo have a child?’
‘No, Drew, this was long before Djogo. My daughter met a fellow while she travelled with Kesslar, a charming, dangerous man who thought a little too much of himself – certainly not a marriageable prospect. She was a teenage girl and thought she was in love. Perhaps they were; we’ll never know. Anyway, a child came from this union, unbeknown to Kesslar. The father was gone before my daughter even knew she was expecting. We hid the pregnancy from the Goat, Shah remaining in Scoria for the final months while Kesslar was away.
‘The baby was born days before the Goat returned with the Banshee full of fresh slaves. Shah had no time at all with the child. I had it – him – taken away, using what coin I’d s
aved to have the baby taken to his father. If Kesslar had found my daughter with a child, Brenn knows what he’d have done with them. Punish her? Sell the child? I only hope the baby was delivered to the father. To this day I worry about what became of him. That child is my only regret.’
Drew put a hand on the old Hawk’s crooked shoulder. ‘You did what you had to, protecting your daughter and grandchild.’
‘If I had that time again, I’d have killed Kesslar before surrendering one of my own. My only regret,’ he repeated.
Drew wanted to comfort the old Hawklord but was unable to find the words.
‘We all have regrets,’ he said eventually, thinking back to Whitley and Gretchen, how he’d never had the chance to say goodbye to them. He wondered where Hector was, what had become of his dear friend, whether he’d ever see him again.
Griffyn smiled, the grin creasing his weatherbeaten face.
‘You’re too young for regrets, Drew. You’ve got time on your side. You can make changes and right your wrongs. Better still, right others’ wrongs. And as long as I live and breathe I shall be by your side to help you do just that.’
2
The Game
Digging his feet into the loose earth, Trent scrambled the remaining distance up the hillside. He’d left the campsite behind him, his comrades’ calls still echoing at his back as they searched for the escaped prisoners. They’d had forty captured men of the Longridings and Romari, all manacled and chained, and three of them had escaped. They’d been caught in the grasslands, drawing ever nearer to Calico where Lady Gretchen no doubt hid.
For one prisoner to go missing was extraordinary; for three to have escaped there must have been a traitor in the camp. Not one to let the tracks go cold, Trent was immediately up and away once the shout went out.
The footprints disappeared up the bluff to the east of the camp. Looking up, Trent could see a swaying rank of grass silhouetted against the moonlight, marking the highest point of the snaking ridge. He hauled himself to the summit, snatching at tufts of grass to stop himself from tumbling back. Breathing hard, he staggered to his feet and looked down. A huge meadow of unspoiled long grass disappeared into the darkness. The bluff was rocky on this side, a steep, treacherous bank of rough stones and loose earth filling the slope to the north and south. Trent watched his step as the rocks skittered underfoot, the scree plummeting sixty feet to the grasslands below.
He glanced along the ridge to see two figures to the north, a hundred feet or so feet away. By the clear night sky he recognized Sorin as one of them. The other was having his manacles removed, before being handed a shortsword by Sorin. With a hearty shove the prisoner was then sent tumbling down the embankment, a cloud of earth and stones erupting in his wake as he rolled and spun down into the grass.
‘Wait!’ called Trent, scrambling along the ridge, but by the time he’d caught up with Sorin the prisoner had disappeared from view below.
‘What in Brenn’s name are you doing? Are you behind this, Sorin? There’s three of them that have escaped!’
‘That’s right, farmboy,’ said Sorin, winking at Trent. Three pairs of unlocked manacles lay at his feet. ‘Was me what freed them, wasn’t it.’
Trent struck the broken-nosed captain in the face, his knuckles cracking as the two of them went down.
‘Get off me you fool!’ shouted Sorin, hammering the side of Trent’s head with his fists as the younger man tried to pin him down.
‘Traitor!’ yelled Trent, finding fresh strength as he grappled with his senior officer. He couldn’t hear the captain’s voice; his mind and struggle was focused on Sorin the traitor. Traitor, just like Drew.
Sorin’s fist caught Trent across the jaw, sending the young outrider over the ridge and down the rocky embankment. He bounced and twirled, losing all sense of up and down, his body a whirling mass of limbs. His head struck hard rock – once, twice – his temple splitting before he juddered to a halt in the grass at the base of the scree.
Trent tried to focus his eyes, stars spinning overhead. He lifted a hand, feeling the torn flesh over his eye, his fingertips coming away crimson.
‘You’d call me a traitor, Ferran?’ laughed Sorin from above, staggering back to his feet. ‘I was obeying orders. Lord Pinkeye told me to have three picked out and sent down here. For the game.’
‘The game?’ called up Trent, dabbing at his streaming brow.
‘Our lordship needs to hunt, Ferran. That’s why I brought them away from the camp. He can lose control when his blood’s up.’
Trent rolled on to his belly and began to crawl up the embankment, the loose earth falling down on top of him. He struggled frantically, trying to find purchase in the scree, but it was impossible. A scream from the long grass behind made him stop and turn, his eyes wide and fearful.
‘You gave them swords?’ he shouted to Sorin.
‘Pinkeye likes his prey to have a little fight in ’em, doesn’t he?’ called down the captain, crouching over the incline. ‘I hope you brought your pa’s Wolfshead blade with you, Ferran. Best of luck, eh?’
With that, Sorin turned and disappeared from view.
‘Sorin!’ Trent cried in vain. ‘Sorin!’
Trent looked up and down the ridge base, desperate to find a way of climbing out. He was blind to a means of escape, the long grass to his right was as high as his head and constantly swaying. Reluctantly, he unsheathed the Wolfshead blade and started to follow the stony bank northwards. He glanced up as he went, constantly searching for a route out.
Sorin had played the situation perfectly and let Trent leap to his own conclusions. Before Trent knew it, he was lying at the bottom of an impossible slope waiting for the Catlord to tear him to pieces. The captain was a sly fellow.
‘Brenn, help me …’
A gurgling cry came from the long grass nearby. Trent recognized the wet sound in the voice; blood, pooling at the back of the man’s throat. He shook his head and moved onwards. Not your concern, Trent.
‘The beast,’ a voice sobbed. ‘Dear Brenn, the beast …’
Trent ground his teeth, ignoring the man’s pleas. He had to look after his own skin, thanks to Sorin. The sobbing man’s cries tugged at him as he walked past, like hooks beneath his skin. Keep going, Trent. Don’t stop now. You can’t stop. The man’s a traitor. His death rattle’s on its way. He got what was coming.
But with each step, the begging cries of the man snagged hold of Trent’s conscience. He couldn’t leave anything to die – that much Mack Ferran had taught him on the Cold Coast.
He cursed angrily, wiping the blood from his temple along his sleeve as he turned and set off into the long grass. Away from the ridge he strode, cutting the grass back with his longsword, staggering hesitantly towards the cries of a scared and dying man.
Thirty or so paces from the slope, Trent found him, lying on a flattened bed of grass. The tall, feathery fronds lay bent and broken about him, his limbs spread-eagled as if he’d prepared a nest for the night. The man still held the shortsword that Sorin had given him, his right hand feebly raising it as Trent appeared. The man’s head remained still against the floor, although his eyes stayed fixed on the Ferran boy as his lips trembled.
The man’s mouth was awash with blood, pink spittle foaming between his teeth, his belly torn wide open. Trent gagged, the food from his evening meal racing up his throat. He turned away, trying to hold it down but only partly succeeding.
‘Please …’ begged the man, finding his words again. ‘Kill … me …’
Trent turned back, his face a mask of pity and horror. He raised the Wolfshead blade and faltered, unable to put the poor man out of his misery. Before he could act decisively, the grasses split to his right as a white shape sprang from the darkness, the moonlight catching the beast’s shining fur as it flew. Trent just had time to parry the monster away, before the sword flew from his grasp and the two tumbled into the bloody gr
ass.
The Catlord’s white head was huge, the width of Trent’s torso. The jaws snapped at his face, teeth the size of daggers. Claws held Trent’s shoulders, pinning him to the ground and preventing his escape. He raised his left forearm towards the monster, catching the Cat’s bite with it before it tore at his skull. The teeth clamped down hard, cutting into the steel armoured bracer and threatening to snap his arm in two. Trent screamed as the Cat’s pink eyes shone, demonic in the moonlight; Frost was possessed by the change, by the hunt, by the kill. The bracer bowed, the metal sleeve groaning, about to break. Trent jabbed at the Catlord’s eyes with his free hand, hooking his thumb in and striking home.
With a roar, Frost released his grip on the Redcloak, leaping off the boy and bounding back into the grasses. The shouting of soldiers echoed down from the ridge, as Bastians and Lionguard investigated the commotion. Trent rolled over on to the body of the dying man, but the beast was gone. The light had gone from the prisoner’s eyes, life’s last breath steaming from his still lips.
Trent scrambled about in the bloody grass, fingers searching for his dropped blade. A low growl emanated from the shadows, the beast was still close by. Did Frost know that it was Trent he was facing? Surely he recognizes me? Trent’s hand brushed cold steel, fingers racing along its length until they found the handle. Snatching it up he tracked back through the grass, towards the voices on the ridge.
He stumbled from the tall grass, collapsing against the pebbled hillside. Above he heard Bastians and Lyssians alike, shouting for him to climb up, to keep moving. He resheathed the Wolfshead blade and began his ascent again, hands and feet clawing at the bank, every handful of loose earth sending him sliding back again. The growling sound drew closer as his comrades shouted their support, looking on with morbid fascination as the beast closed in.
‘Keep moving, Ferran!’
‘It’s coming, man!’
‘Climb for your life!’
Trent wanted to scream, but that was wasted energy. He was fighting for survival now – the changed Catlord behind him was out of his mind with bloodlust. Trent was just one more human delivered by Sorin, a mouse for the cat to play with until it stopped twitching.
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 15
