Drew didn’t wait for Drake’s body to land.
The Wolf dived across the skiff to where the Doglord lay against the gunwales in a pile of broken oars, past the spear, hitting the monster with a ferocious impact. The hull splintered open, sending the wrestling therians into the Silver River, struggling for dominance as they sank. Drew’s teeth found the Dog’s muzzle and nose, biting down hard.
The Dog reached up, trying desperately to prise the jaws open, but it was hopeless. The struggling slowed, Drew’s own head and chest thundering as he felt his last breaths escape his body. He released his hold and kicked back towards the surface, but not before he caught sight of the Doglord, choked and drowned on blood and water, sinking towards the bottom of the cold river.
Drew resurfaced as the Banshee neared, the two enemy boats having disengaged from the skiff now, beating a hasty retreat to the southern bank. Drew threw his arm over the skiff’s broken side, taking a great lungful of air, his body already returning to human form. He clambered aboard, spying Shah with the girl in her arms, struggling to stand upright on the gore-slicked deck. Her face was ashen as she stared aft.
Drake lay on a bed of dead warriors, clawed hands over the hole in his chest. He, too, was returning to his human form while he clung to life, his lips smacking clumsily as he tried to smile at Drew. The young Wolflord crawled to him, placing his hand over the fatal wound.
‘Never doubt it, Wolf …’ whispered the dying therian as his eyes began to close. ‘I had your back …’
A tear rolled down Drew’s cheek as he held Drake in his arms, the young Werecrocodile drifting off to sleep for the final time.
6
Straight and True
The candlelight cast long shadows over the captain’s desk as Count Vega dipped his quill pen into the inkpot. The nib swept across the open page, the Sharklord’s handwriting as flamboyant as one would expect from the Pirate Prince. He’d kept a journal since his first commission as a captain, thirty of the leather-bound volumes filling the bookcase in his cabin. He was aware that the crew, many of whom were illiterate, considered the habit eccentric, but it was one of the few things that kept Vega feeling civilized during his travels.
The hour was late and the night quiet. With most aboard the Maelstrom asleep bar the skeleton crew, it was the perfect time to write uninterrupted. The ship, of course, was more crowded than usual; Vega had to wonder if he’d ever truly have it back for himself. Although it was pleasant to spend time in the company of other Werelords, especially Manfred, his guests were beginning to overstay their welcomes. Typical dirt-walkers, his mother would have said. He’d get them to Roof all right, but he wasn’t sure where his own path led. Perhaps he’d leave the Maelstrom with Figgis as he went inland with the queen and the duke – he couldn’t abandon the Wolf’s Council now.
Vega wondered if anyone truly considered him a changed character. He’d been described as ‘the count without a court’, shamed for betraying Wergar to help Leopold rise to power. There was more to the story than that, of course. Bergan and Manfred had recovered well enough after bowing before Leo-pold, although Vega suspected the parts they’d played in the Wolf’s downfall had kept them awake at night. He hoped so, anyway – he’d be cursed if he was the only Werelord who carried a guilty conscience wherever he went.
Vega’s respect for Drew was a new feeling for the Sharklord. He’d sworn an oath of loyalty to the boy’s father years ago, and Leopold since, but he’d taken those vows lightly. Young and impetuous, he’d been more concerned with gold, swashbuckling his way across the White Sea. Now, older and wiser, the count took his promise to the young Wolf seriously – to aid Wergar’s son as they set about righting past wrongs and making Lyssia a safe place for all. With Bergan and Mikkel gone and Drew’s whereabouts unknown, he held on to the hope that the Wolf’s Council still stood for something. He prayed to Sosha that the boy lived.
The ink burst from the nib suddenly, sending a small black puddle over his script. He cursed, blotting at it with a piece of paper. The stain slowly drying, Vega stared at the inkblot, and his thoughts drifted towards the last member of the Wolf’s Council, the Baron of Redmire. Vega had seen Hector’s palm while poor Bethwyn had nursed him. The girl had tried to keep the scarred hand hidden, possibly due to some misguided sense of loyalty, but the sea marshal had spied it all the same: a black mark. Hector’s was flesh corrupted by something – but what?
Vega wasn’t sure when it had happened, but things had gone very wrong for the Boarlord. The young man had been losing control long before the dreadful encounter on the White Isle. Had he started to unravel after the death of his brother? It had been an accident, of course. At least, Vega had assumed that was the case. He shook his head. No, Vincent was wicked; he’d have killed Hector that night if fate hadn’t intervened. Perhaps Hector’s ill luck had begun when he’d first communed with the dead Wylderman shaman in the Wyrmwood.
Hector’s decline had really spiralled after Drew’s departure. When they were all living in Highcliff, Vega had enjoyed the company of both young men, as had the entire Wolf’s Council. It had been good to watch the boys’ friendship blossom, each benefiting from the other’s best traits. Drew had become more worldly wise with the Boarlord’s help, whereas time with the Wolf had allowed Hector to become more confident, more vocal. Hector had changed further without Drew, but it was all for the worse.
The rapping of a loose rope against his cabin window pulled Vega away from his dark thoughts. He swivelled in his seat, staring back at the small panels of glass that filled the rear wall of the captain’s quarters. The rope flashed faintly into view as it whipped down and struck the window. Vega grimaced: some fool hadn’t tied the thing off. He hated seeing such lazy attention to detail on the Maelstrom, and if he did nothing about it now it’d be sure to keep him awake all night. Replacing the quill in the inkpot, Vega rose from his desk, taking his black cape and fastening it around his throat. He checked the carriage clock that was fixed to his desk, which told him it was the second hour after midnight. Leaving the cabin he made his way above deck, heading aft.
Arriving aloft, Vega caught sight of a couple of crew members working on the foredeck. Only one sailor paid attention to the captain’s arrival, the chief mate Figgis who acknowledged him with a brief nod. The count glanced up the main mast, spying Casper on his way down from the midnight watch. Vega was proud of how seriously the lad took his duties as a cabin boy and lookout. He’d been up there for three hours, earning himself a warm bunk on his return. Marching up the steps to the poop deck, Vega passed the wheel, lashed down for the night, stepping through the darkness towards the stern.
Vega stopped at the railing. He’d expected the offending rope to be attached to a working part of the ship. Instead it was a relatively short length tied to the rail, serving no purpose. He looked over the side, spying the tattered end banging against his cabin windows as the water churned white below. Who’d fasten a length of rope to the aft of the ship? What good did it do other than annoy the count and bring him aloft? Vega looked at how the rope was tied; it wasn’t a nautical knot, which meant it wasn’t one of his crew. The Sharklord suddenly felt a sick, cold feeling in his stomach. He turned.
Hector stood behind him, flanked by two other figures in the shadows. His men kept an eye towards the prow of the Maelstrom, on the lookout for passers by, while the Boarlord’s eyes were fixed on the count.
‘What is this, Hector?’ asked Vega, trying to keep his voice calm while his guts were in knots. Why did he feel so anxious? How could Hector put him so on edge?
‘I needed to see you, Vega.’
‘Why the rope trick? You could have come and knocked for me. Don’t you know, by now? My door’s always open to friends, Hector.’
Vega glanced past the trio, trying to spy anyone beyond them, but could see no one. They were alone.
‘I needed you up here. On deck.’
Hector’s
voice was rough from disuse. He’d not ventured on to the deck since he’d awoken from his week-long coma. Clearly, the Boarlord had chosen the time of this meeting carefully.
‘Well,’ said Vega, opening his arms. ‘You have my attention. What do you want?’
Vega smiled, but it was a mask. The poop deck seemed charged with energy, the Sharklord’s ears threatening to pop as if a great pressure was in the air.
‘You kept pushing, Vega.’
‘What?’
‘You kept poking, belittling me.’
‘What are you talking about, Hector?’
‘You treat me like a child, a foolish boy who can’t do anything right. Is that how you see me?’
Hector took a couple of steps forward. If he’d been in awe of Vega previously, he wasn’t showing it. Hector didn’t seem in the least bit nervous about challenging the Wereshark.
‘Hold on,’ said Vega, wanting to raise his voice but sensing that, if he did, something very bad might happen. The Sharklord’s hunches rarely steered him wrong.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re mistaken. I’ve stood by your side, my young friend, through every cursed thing that’s happened.’
‘Don’t patronize me, friend,’ spat Hector. ‘As for being at my side, perhaps you’re the cursed one. Perhaps it’s you who brings misery and death to all you touch.’
Vega saw the young Boarlord’s hands curled into fists at his side. His men were no calmer, each of them agitated as they shadowed him. Vega could see where this was heading.
‘Hector,’ he said calmly. ‘Before you do anything stupid, just think …’
‘Silence!’ hissed Hector, throwing his ungloved hand up, palm open towards the captain of the Maelstrom.
Vega couldn’t get another word out. His throat felt restricted, closed tight as if held by some invisible force. He clawed at his neck, fingers scratching the skin, trying to sever whatever constricted him, but finding nothing. The sensation was sickening, an invisible noose around his throat, tightening as he struggled. He wanted to shout, to scream, but Hector had silenced him utterly. He took a step forward, grabbing Hector by the shoulders. He tried to mouth the word ‘please’, but all that came forth was spittle.
Vega’s eyes widened as he felt something cold and sharp in his guts. He felt it cut through his flesh, burying itself among his internal organs as the blood flowed out around it. Hector’s face contorted with both horror and sadness, eyes red with tears.
‘Getting rid of Vincent,’ whispered Hector. ‘Did you think you could keep me in your debt forever? You’re just like the others, Vega. Worse: you’re a two-faced serpent. You belong on the seabed with the other bottom-dwellers.’
Hector stepped back, as Vega, still spluttering, looked down. In his hands the Boarlord held an arrow, its beautifully crafted silver head slick with blood. Where had Hector got it from? It doesn’t matter now, thought Vega, his fingers fumbling over his stomach as his white shirt turned crimson.
Ringlin and Ibal stepped forward, the fat one giggling quietly as he handed a hessian sack with an attached rope to the tall one. Ringlin lifted the rope over Vega’s head, a noose that fitted snugly around the count’s neck. He pulled it tight before releasing it. Vega instantly staggered at the weight of the sack, recognizing the unmistakable clang of the heavy balls of shot from the Maelstrom’s cannons.
Hector snapped his left hand shut, black hand vanishing out of sight, as Vega struggled to breathe with the sack around his throat. He didn’t know whether to struggle for the noose or keep his hands over the bleeding wound. He wanted to beg Hector, ask him to stop the madness, apologize for whatever wrongs the lad imagined the count had done him. But he didn’t get the chance.
Hector nodded to his henchmen, who stepped forward and grabbed Count Vega, fearsome captain of the Maelstrom, Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles and terror of the White Sea. They gave him a hearty shove, sending him flying back over the aft rail of the ship.
Hector turned away before Vega had even gone over the side. To his shock and horror he saw the cabin boy, Casper, barge past him out of nowhere, and sprint between Ringlin and Ibal as they deposited the Sharklord into the cold Sturmish Sea. Ibal was quick with his sickle, grabbing the boy by his mop of hair and whipping the curved blade to his throat.
‘No!’ gasped Hector, his old self returning briefly.
Kill the boy! snarled the Vincent-vile gleefully, fresh from throttling the Sharklord. He’s seen too much!
Before Hector could issue any command, the lad bit down hard on the fat man’s hand and stamped on his foot, Ibal relinquished his grip instantly and Casper didn’t hesitate, leaping overboard after his captain.
Hector rushed to the rail and looked over, astonished by the boy’s suicidal act of blind loyalty. All he saw was the white water disappearing behind the Maelstrom, the great ship leaving her dying captain to the ocean as a lonely length of rope whipped behind her in the black night.
7
The Jewel of Omir
If Highcliff’s defences had once impressed Drew, the walls of Azra put them firmly in the shade. The shining city walls rose fifty feet high, encircling Omir’s capital like a steel crown. Sandblasted by fierce winds, the mighty walls were polished like glass, breathtaking to the eye and intimidating to the enemy. The battlements were manned by gold-helmeted warriors, looking down at the people who crowded around the River Gate. Drew couldn’t help but stare as he and his companions approached, jaw slack with awe behind his kash.
The Banshee remained moored in Kaza, a small port a mile south of Azra and used by the great city for access to the river. The Silver Road that ran between the two was marked by many small shops, inns and trade posts, effectively forming a ramshackle town of its own. Those who couldn’t gain access to Azra had settled on the Silver Road, waiting for their chance to gain entrance, and many had put down roots, now calling the road their home.
Merchants from the river travelled up the road to queue and seek entrance into King Faisal’s city. But there were others present: families with children, fearful looking people who sought refuge in Azra. Drew was shocked by the number of slaves they also encountered, shackled to one another by chain and collar. Some ferried goods up and down the Silver Road, while others carried their masters and mistresses in silk-covered chairs over the heads of the crowd. It was in the middle of this throng where Drew found himself, jostled by slave and trader as he and his companions pushed towards the gate.
‘Bringing her to the Jackal’s door was a mistake. We should have handed her over to the port authorities,’ growled Djogo.
‘I’d sooner leave her with Kesslar,’ said Drew, thinking back to the unruly dockers they’d encountered in Kaza. The girl was in a state of shock after the fight on the river that morning, too traumatized to speak. The Werelords had taken the slain body of Drake to the shore, breaking the journey to bury the brave Werecrocodile. They had worked alongside one another, digging deep into the hot sand as they prepared the grave. Krieg had said a few words for their fallen brother while the rest watched in silent respect. None would forget the sacrifice Drake had made in saving the lives of both Drew and the child. The young Wolflord and his companions had decided to take the girl to the city, delivering her safely to the gate guards. They would know what to do with her.
Walking beside Drew, Lady Shah carried the girl in her arms. The girl had warmed to Shah, and the Hawklady had taken her under her wing. In addition to the slain soldiers who’d accompanied the girl, Djogo had found the body of an older, noble-looking gentleman, a silver javelin piercing his chest. Judging by the choice of weapon, Drew assumed he’d been a known Werelord, the girl perhaps a relative. Either way, Azra was the safest place for her.
‘Are random attacks common on the Silver River?’ Drew asked Djogo as Shah pushed on ahead through the crowd, the exhausted girl sleeping in her arms.
‘Yes, but
they’re usually river pirates, not Doglords and Omiri warriors. That was a coordinated attack; seems the dead Werelord back there had enemies.’
Four warriors from the Banshee followed them, pulling a covered cart along behind. The body of the slain nobleman lay beneath the tarpaulin.
‘Are there not safer ways to travel than the river?’
The tall warrior shrugged.
‘In the Desert Realm? It’s a balancing act. The smaller your group, the more chance you have of travelling unnoticed, but if you’re attacked you’re in trouble. The larger your number, the more noticeable you are to your enemies, but you’ll get there in one piece. The Omiri are a secretive people – they’ve turned subterfuge into a fine art. Misdirection and smokescreens have won numerous wars in the desert.’
Djogo clapped the boards of the wagon behind them. ‘If war is on Omir’s doorstep, then the realm’s therians will be returning to their respective homes, quickly and quietly. Our friend here wasn’t as well versed in subterfuge as his brethren.’
‘Perhaps he was betrayed?’
‘Not our problem now. Let’s drop the child and corpse off and be on our way.’
‘I can’t believe how many slaves I’m seeing. I hadn’t expected to see this outside of Scoria.’
‘I’ll say one thing for the Jackals,’ whispered Djogo. ‘They treat their slaves better than the Lizards do. But that wouldn’t take much, would it?’
‘Sounds like you don’t want to be here.’
‘You don’t know the half of it, Wolf,’ said the warrior as they neared the gate, pulling his kash across his face.
A dozen soldiers stood at the gate, checking the papers of anyone who sought admittance into Azra. Wearing golden helmets that rose to sharp points, some carried scimitars at their hips. Others carried the long spears that the Omiri favoured. At nine foot long they were somewhere between a pike and javelin. All the guards wore yolk-yellow capes round their shoulders. All in all, they looked both regal and lethal.
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 18
