Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  Bethwyn brushed the matted hair from Hector’s brow. He’d lost a lot of weight since she’d first met him in Highcliff, his puppy fat all gone as his skin clung tightly to his cheekbones. His skin had a deathly pallor to it, almost yellow beneath the lantern light. She shivered, throwing another piece of wood on to the stove. She closed the grille door with the poker before facing the sickly Boarlord once more.

  Hector’s left arm had found its way out of the covers. She picked it up at the wrist and elbow and was about to tuck it back below the blanket when she paused. She turned it over in her hands, revealing the palm. The black mark she’d seen when they’d encountered the Sirens had grown, the entire palm now blackened and the skin darkening between each finger. This wasn’t the first time she’d examined the hand while Hector slept. While the rest of his body burned with a fever, the corrupted palm remained cold to the touch. As cold as death itself, thought Bethwyn.

  Suddenly the hand snatched at her wrist, causing her to cry out in shock. It clasped hard, the chill flesh tight on her skin, fingers holding her in their grasp. Hector’s eyes were open, watching her, his head motionless on the pillow.

  ‘Gretchen.’

  His voice was a whisper, cracked lips trembling as he tried to smile. Bethwyn should have been happy to see his eyes and hear his voice, but she couldn’t get over the shock of his grip. He’s mistaken me for another. She tugged back, trying to free her wrist.

  ‘I dreamt it was you. So caring and kind,’ he said slowly and quietly.

  ‘Please, Hector; it’s me, Bethwyn,’ she said, but he wouldn’t relinquish his hold.

  ‘I was in such a dark place, Gretchen, so cold and alone. And you were the warmth I could cling to. It was your light that brought me back from the darkness. It was your love.’

  ‘Hector, you’re hurting,’ she cried, as the magister’s hand tightened its grip. Can he not hear me? It was as if he were unaware of his hand’s action while her words simply didn’t register.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t abandon me to the dark,’ he said, eyes closing as tears rolled down his face. ‘I knew you’d save me from the nightmare, Gretchen …’

  Bethwyn was crying out now, trying to prise his fingers away, but the more she struggled the tighter he held on. His words were rambling, making no sense, as if he were sleep talking. Is he even conscious? Does he know he’s hurting me?

  ‘I would speak with your father when the time comes, Gretchen. I would seek your hand my love, for we should be together. We belong together.’

  Bethwyn shrieked, frantically trying to shake him loose, as the door burst open. Vega was between the two of them immediately, trying to bat Hector’s hand away. When he realized the Boar wouldn’t relinquish his grip, he took his own fingers to Hector’s, pulling them back hard. The Sharklord was surprised by the magister’s strength, the hold like a trap. Finally the fingers opened enough to allow the girl to pull her arm free, the flesh of her wrist livid with red welts.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ shouted Vega, shaking Hector by the shoulders in his cot.

  ‘What?’ muttered Hector, his eyes blinking as if waking from a dream. ‘I didn’t …’

  ‘You were hurting her!’ said the count as Manfred and Amelie appeared in the doorway. Bethwyn rushed into the queen’s arms.

  ‘Bethwyn?’ gasped Hector, deeply confused.

  Manfred stood to one side, escorting Amelie and Bethwyn from the room. He passed Ringlin and Ibal entering as he left, the Staglord unable to resist glowering at the Boarguard. The men watched the three leave before joining Vega in their sickly master’s cabin.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ whispered Hector. ‘I was dreaming …’

  ‘Dreaming or not, Hector, that girl has tended to you for the last seven days.’

  Vega leaned over the bed and brought his face close to Hector’s. ‘Tell me, Hector: did you know what was waiting for us on that island? What kind of monster was that in the cavern? One of my men died on that beach, devoured by the dead, while you explored that cave.’

  ‘I don’t know … what you’re talking …’ stammered Hector, but the captain of the Maelstrom continued.

  ‘I thought you and I had an understanding, Hector. I was there in Bevan’s Tower, remember? I helped you with that mess. I thought it was an accident …’

  ‘It was an accident, Vega!’ cried Hector, fully awake now, his face contorting with resentment.

  ‘That may be,’ said the Sharklord. ‘But our visit to the White Isle was no accident. Your encounter with that monster didn’t look like a struggle to me, Hector. It looked like … like an embrace …’

  Vega stood up, straightening his collar.

  ‘I’m disappointed, Hector. I’ve looked out for you, shown you nothing but compassion and friendship, and this is how you repay me. Well, I’m watching you. You know more than you’re telling us, only I’m not as foolish as the others. I know your secrets, just remember that.’

  Count Vega turned, barging between the Boarguard and slamming the cabin door shut as he left. Ringlin and Ibal watched him leave, then looked back to the Lord of Redmire as he lay in his sickbed. Hector’s face darkened as he lifted his blackened hand to his throat. He took hold of the bandages, yanking them loose, the stained dressing crunching as he pulled it from his wound. The scar was scabbed over, slowly on the mend. He rubbed his black hand across his neck and heaved himself upright, swaying woozily on the bed. He looked at the two men, his face full of thunder, eyes bright with fury and revenge. The stare spoke volumes to the Boarguard. Ibal giggled and Ringlin nodded.

  Hector’s whisper hissed from his broken lips. ‘Vega must die.’

  5

  Overwhelming Odds

  Opening into the ocean at Bloody Bay, the Silver River had earned its name on two counts. Firstly, as the main tributary from the Barebones to the Sabre Sea, it was the swiftest and most profitable trade route for moving precious metals out of the mountains. It was said that whoever controlled the Silver River controlled Omir, the stewardship of the waterway being a constant bone of contention between the Werelords of the Desert Realm.

  As Drew stood on the poop deck of the Banshee and looked east towards the sunrise, he marvelled at the other cause for the river’s name. With the sun’s first rays breaking over the horizon, the mighty river threw its light back to the heavens. Drew squinted, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the metallic glare of the water.

  ‘It’s something else, isn’t it?’

  He blinked as his eyes slowly refocused on Lady Shah at his side.

  ‘A jewel in the desert’s crown,’ agreed Drew, turning from the blinding vision.

  The crew made the most of the fair weather, and unfurled the sails, grateful for the wind that spirited them westward up the river. Djogo stood at the wheel on the deck below, the former slaver enjoying his newfound freedom, even managing to share a rare joke with Drake who lounged nearby. The sun’s rays were warm on Drew’s back, a welcome change from the freezing night. They might have been in the land of sand, but the night reminded him of the Cold Coast. Winter had arrived across Lyssia, even flirting with Omir. The snow-capped mountains of the Barebones straddled the horizon, their ultimate destination.

  ‘When did you last visit the mountains?’

  ‘Fifteen years ago,’ replied Shah, pausing to think about the long absence. ‘I was but a girl, handed over to Kesslar by Skeer, along with my father.’

  ‘And you’ve encountered no other Hawklords in your travels since then?’

  ‘None. I hear mention of them occasionally, reported sightings, but their spirits were broken when my father’s wings were taken. We were a shamed species to King Leopold, lower than humans in his eyes.’

  ‘Do you really think your father can call them home? This Screaming Peak – it sounds like something from a storybook.’

  ‘He was taken there as a child by his father, its secrets pas
sed on to him. I just hope we can find it.’

  The Banshee wasn’t a huge ship but she looked out of place on the Silver River. Her big black prow cut a great wake through the water, sending the smaller fishing vessels, barges and skiffs towards the shores. The waterway was wide and deep, navigable to big ships such as the Banshee to where the river split at Two Rivers. This wild port town at the foot of the Barebones where mountain met desert was where the Werelords now headed. From Two Rivers they would disembark and hike on towards Tor Raptor. Drew’s eyes settled on the former slaver who commanded the ship’s wheel on the deck below, his thoughts returning to the private talks the two had shared.

  ‘Djogo seems to be very fond of you,’ said Drew.

  ‘What’s he told you?’

  ‘He says you’re friends – that’s all you can ever be, he a human, you a therian.’

  Shah shivered and smiled. ‘I’ve loved before, Drew, and it didn’t end well …’ Her voice trailed off as she stared upriver to where a number of craft jostled against one another.

  ‘What is it?’ said Drake as he walked up to the poop deck to join them.

  ‘A massacre,’ said Shah, still looking ahead, her face impassive. ‘An ambush.’

  ‘You can see that?’ asked Drew, suddenly anxious. They had to retain their anonymity and stay out of the fray – the last thing the group needed was a fight, especially someone else’s. He strained his eyes, seeing only blurs aboard the boats ahead, plus the occasional glint of steel.

  ‘You have your nose, Wolf. I have my sight.’

  ‘Who’s fighting?’ asked Drake.

  ‘Hard to tell, but the skiff in the middle is under attack from two others. They’re badly outnumbered.’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘A Doglord of some kind leads the assault.’

  ‘Really?’ said Drew, mention of a therian so similar to his own kind piquing his interest. His instinct told him they should step in. The men of the Banshee had noticed the commotion as well, stopping their work to watch.

  Shah saw that Drew was agitated. She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘You cannot join every fight.’

  ‘It feels wrong,’ he growled as they watched the skirmish. He was about to say more when her fingers dug into his skin. He winced, noticing her nails had transformed into talons.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Drew gasped.

  ‘A child’s in danger!’

  Before Drew could respond, Drake had taken a running jump, launching himself from the deck of the Banshee.

  ‘Drake!’ cried Shah, but the Crocodile was already gone, swimming speedily towards the fracas. The pair could see his long dark shape powering through the water in the direction of the three boats, transforming as he swam.

  ‘He’ll get himself killed!’ fretted Shah.

  ‘How many are there?’ asked Drew.

  ‘Too many.’

  Shah arched her back, grey wings emerging with a flourish. Her head was changing, features growing sharper, her nose and mouth blending together into an amber beak as a frill of charcoal feathers emerged through her black hair. A large avian eye stared down at Drew as he stood in the Hawklady’s shadow.

  She prepared to take flight, taking to the air from the Banshee’s wooden deck. Drew needed no invitation, catching hold of her legs as she took off. The Werehawk looked down, surprised at the presence of a passenger.

  ‘You’ve carried me once before!’ he shouted, as if to persuade her not to drop him. Shah shook him loose, his one hand not strong enough to keep hold, only to snatch him up again in her powerful talons. They quickly put the Banshee behind them as they closed in on the battle. Drake was there already, wading into the midst of the combatants, turning the air red around him. As they neared, Drew felt the change coming, the Wolf’s aspects gradually shifting through his body. By the time Shah was flying over the ambushed skiff, she was launching a changed Werewolf into a gang of shocked swordsmen.

  Drew’s claws flew, the lycanthrope spinning as he scattered the mob of attacking warriors along the deck. His foot crunched into a torso, ribs crumpling as the man was catapulted overboard. Drew’s hand battered another, sending him colliding into his companion’s blade, the two toppling in a bloody mess. A scimitar sailed down, one fighter finding a way past the claws towards the Werewolf’s throat. Drew’s trident dagger flashed, deflecting the blade off the basket hilt.

  Drew took in the scene. The skiff’s oarsmen lay dead, some floating face down in the river, butchered in the attack. Two sleeker boats were moored alongside the skiff, grapples having hauled it in so the warriors could board. The dozen or so invaders wore crimson kashes, the splash of red reminding Drew of the Lionguard. He looked to the prow. A girl no more than ten years old cowered there, two warriors in white valiantly standing between her and the enemy, their dead comrades littering the deck.

  Drake tried to cut his way through the red-kashed warriors towards the girl, but the attackers were ready for him, throwing their blades up as he tore into them. Drew was drawn to the towering dog-headed warrior in the middle of the skiff. He held an enormous spear in one hand, barking orders as he faced the therians.

  ‘You’ve nothing to fear!’ cried the Doglord to his soldiers. ‘Silver or not, they’ll still bleed from your blades!’

  The warriors attacked, spurred on by their master. Scimitars rained down on Drew and Shah. The Hawklady leaped off the boat to hover over the water, lashing out with her talons. Drew ducked and weaved, returning his own volley of claw, tooth and dagger at the warriors. He glanced up to see the two brave defenders at the front of the skiff tumble lifelessly to their knees, the attackers’ numerous scimitars too much for them. With mighty wing beats Shah rushed to the prow, landing over the girl and snatching up a pair of swords.

  ‘Leave the girl alone!’

  The red-kashed warriors hesitated for a moment, facing the transformed Werehawk armed with twin blades. The Doglord urged them forward, Shah’s swords finding the first few who got too close, before the caninthrope turned to face the Werecrocodile. Bodies, oars, scimitars and benches made the battleground uneven for all the combatants. The Banshee remained too far away, leaving the three therians alone in their fight against the men in red kashes. The Doglord’s giant spear lanced through the air towards Drake, but the Crocodile stumbled clear and into the enemy mob. He went down beneath them as the Doglord turned his attention on Drew.

  The spear splintered the deck where the Wolf had stood a moment earlier. Drew hurdled the weapon and leaped, kicking the Dog’s jaw. The beast’s head snapped back, the blow sending him crashing into his men. They pushed him forward once more, allowing him to take another stab at Drew. The Werehound was fast, and deadly with his spear, the blade finding Drew as he tried to dodge clear. The foot-long silver dagger tore deep into Drew’s shoulder, tearing the flesh and glancing off bone. The Wolf howled in agony, dizzy with nausea from the deadly blade.

  ‘You must be the Werewolf everyone’s so keen to meet. Let’s see what they make of you when I’m wearing your skin as a cloak!’ the Doglord taunted.

  The spear jabbed forward again, but Drew threw his head out of the way just in time, the blade missing his face by a hair’s breadth. He took hold of the spear shaft as it passed, hooking it under his arm and throwing his weight behind it as he swung it hard to one side. The Doglord kept hold of the other end, unable to stop himself from being propelled into his own men. Three of them tumbled overboard and the Hound narrowly avoided joining them. But before Drew could press home his advantage the remaining red-kashed warriors leaped on him.

  Drew lashed out blindly, but scimitar cuts criss-crossed his back as his attackers slashed at him and blood pumped relentlessly from his shoulder wound. He was overwhelmed, knocking one red-kashed fighter off only to see two more take his place. The longer he remained on the deck, the more chance the fight would end badly. More sword blows were finding their mark now, the Doglord’s
warriors proving fearless and blindly obedient under his command.

  But just as it began to look hopeless, the men in red started to fall away, their blows becoming less frequent as their numbers were thinned. Drew looked up to see hands, limbs, fingers and flesh flying as Drake tore a path through the warriors towards him. The Doglord brought his spear round, striking out at the Werecrocodile, but Drake was too fast, his reptilian tail whipped out from behind. Two men went overboard, legs broken, before the tail struck the Doglord, sending him bouncing on to the deck, spear clattering down on top of him.

  Two more soldiers stood over Drew, one aiming an executioner’s blow to his neck. Drew knew all too well that no therian healing could replace a missing head. Drake was on them instantly, his reptilian body blocking the blows as he put himself in harm’s way. The red warriors were strong, but no match for a transformed therian gladiator. The executioner suddenly found he was missing a hand, Drake spitting it back at him as he toppled. The last man let loose a wail as the Crocodile’s jaws closed around his neck and snapped closed. He let the body collapse to the deck before turning to his friend.

  ‘Quick, Drew,’ gasped Drake, extending his clawed hand. ‘On your feet!’

  One moment the Werecrocodile stood over Drew, the epitome of the heroic warrior, lit by the rising sun. The next, a foot-long silver spearhead burst from Drake’s puffing chest. The Crocodile’s face froze in agony. Drake’s eyes rolled down to look at the bloody blade that protruded from his sternum, as Drew watched in horror. The spearhead was savagely twisted, before the Doglord whipped it free from behind with a roar of triumph.