Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  2

  In the Jaws of the Jackal

  ‘You’re a long way from home, Wolf.’

  The two captives stood alongside one another, surrounded by the royal court and twenty of Azra’s finest warriors. While Djogo’s gaze was fixed on his feet, Drew’s eyes lingered on the frescoed domed ceiling above, the centuries-old art pre-dating anything he’d seen in the galleries of Highcliff. He looked around. Majestic marble pillars and busts of ancient kings, fluttering curtains laced with gold and priceless artefacts from Lyssia and beyond – the show of opulence wasn’t missed by Drew. He’d grown up under the mistaken belief that the Omiri were savages. A quick glance around the palace revealed that nothing could have been further from the truth. Here was an ancient, rich culture to rival anything in the Seven Realms.

  Drew let his gaze return to the figure on the throne who had spoken: King Faisal, the Jackal of Omir.

  ‘Not by choice. I’m sorry if my arrival has caused you any concern,’ Drew said, raising his bound arms towards the seated figure. His forearms had been lashed together, knotted behind his elbows. ‘If you could remove these ropes I’ll be on my way.’

  The crowd laughed, all except the king who rose from his throne. The audience quieted instantly as he strode gracefully down the dais steps towards Drew and his companion. By Drew’s reckoning, Faisal had to be as old as Bergan if he’d fought Wergar during the Werewar. If so, he wore his years well, the Werejackal’s tanned skin smooth, without scars and wrinkles, his features fine and unspoiled. He wore a simple white toga and a crown of twined golden rope. His feet were bare and paced silently across the polished marble floor. Beautiful wasn’t a word Drew would ordinarily use to describe a man, but in Faisal’s case no other would fit, The king came to a halt before Drew, his almond eyes inspecting the Wolf intently.

  ‘You have your father’s arrogance.’ His voice was rich and honey-toned, matching his appearance. Although Western wasn’t his first language, he was as fluent as any lord of Lyssia in the tongue.

  ‘If I do, it’s dumb luck,’ said Drew. ‘I never met Wergar.’

  ‘Then your arrogance is your own, Wolf. Your dead, arrogant father would be proud.’

  Drew prickled. He’d never known Wergar and stories of his exploits were mixed, his role ranging from hero to barbarian. Regardless, Faisal’s words cut deep.

  ‘I understand Wergar waged war with Omir, Your Majesty,’ said Drew. ‘But that was his war. Not mine.’

  ‘Your father was the only Werelord ever to break the defences of Azra, and without the forces of Brackenholme and Stormdale to assist him. It cost him the lives of many. For months he campaigned in my burning deserts, his men dying of thirst and starvation. If he hadn’t had the help of the Hawklords his bones would have joined those of his Wolfguard in the sand.’

  There was mention of the Hawks of the Barebones again, loyal to Wergar.

  ‘The Hawklords helped him win that war?’

  ‘The Hawklords would side with anyone who might help feather their nest!’ shouted a pale-skinned stocky man in a long black cloak. He looked out of place in the Omiri palace.

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ said Drew. ‘Griffyn’s a good man, a noble therian, one of the last of his kind.’

  ‘You claim to know the old Hawk?’ scoffed the man in black. ‘He’s probably dead now, a relic of the past. There are few of them left, and the only good one sits in Windfell: Baron Skeer!’

  Faisal smiled. ‘You’ll have to forgive my guest, Lord Rook. The Crowlords have never seen eye to eye with the Hawklords. I’d have to say I agree with him. Then again, the Crows never attacked my city, did they?

  ‘I swore fealty to the Wolf to end the siege of Azra, but that agreement didn’t last long. By the time he limped home to Westland, bloodied and battered from the fight in Omir, his therian brothers had turned on him, handing his head to the Lion on a platter. They tell me you consider those who betrayed your father as your friends and allies: the Bearlord and Staglords?’

  ‘Bergan explained what happened long ago. He kept no secrets from me. If you’re hoping to make me doubt my friends, you’re barking up the wrong tree, King Faisal.’

  The king sneered, disappointed. ‘No doubt you now know that your precious Wolf’s Council is broken? The Bearlord’s dead, I hear, and the surviving Staglord lost. You’d be the last flame the Catlords need to snuff out, and then Lyssia will finally be rid of the Wolf.’

  Drew hung his head, the blow hitting home. Faisal nodded, content to see the youth’s heartache.

  ‘How have I wronged you, Your Majesty?’

  Faisal’s laughter was musical, joined by the guffaws of his courtiers. The king shook his head and sighed.

  ‘It’s bad enough you come to my city, the son of the only therian ever to defeat me in battle. Yet look who accompanies you.’

  The king turned to face Djogo, his hand reaching out and gently taking the tall warrior’s jaw in his slender fingers. He lifted the brute’s head, almond eyes widening as he stared into Djogo’s one good eye.

  ‘Djogo,’ he whispered. ‘Kesslar’s hound, returning to the scene of the crime.’

  ‘What crime?’ asked Drew.

  ‘Your companions didn’t explain what business they’d had in Azra previously, then? Splendid: let me elaborate.’

  Djogo glanced at Drew briefly, the look apologetic. What in Brenn’s name did you do, Djogo?

  ‘The Goatlord, Kesslar, lodged here for a time,’ continued the king, pacing around the bound men. ‘Initially, he was a generous, thoughtful guest, and we were most gracious hosts.’

  ‘He was a slaver!’ interrupted Drew.

  ‘Look around you, Wolf. Azra is built on slaves. They’re a currency like any other in Omir.

  ‘It didn’t take him long to betray our trust. He invited three of my cousins aboard his ship to dine. They took gifts, as is our tradition: gold, jewels and spices. My cousins and their entourages stayed with him aboard his vessel as guests that night.

  ‘When the morning came, they were gone. The bodies of several guards were found in the Silver River, throats slit. Your work, Djogo?’

  The ex-slaver said nothing, his eyes returning to the floor.

  ‘Where are they now, fiend? My people, my cousins? Do they live, or did they die in some distant arena, for the amusement of Kesslar and his friends?’

  Djogo spoke at last. ‘All were sold into slavery, but only the strongest went to the arena. Two Jackals died in the Furnace in Scoria. The third, the youngest, was sold to a Bastian Catlord.’

  ‘Brenn, no,’ muttered Drew miserably. ‘Why, Djogo?’

  The tall warrior looked at Drew, his face emotionless. ‘I worked for Kesslar. I was a slaver. It was the only world I knew. There was no right or wrong; it was my job.’

  Drew thought Faisal might strike Djogo at any moment, the king’s face shimmering with fury. He bared his teeth as he looked at each of them, speaking clearly and with deadly purpose.

  ‘I see you each bear the mark of gladiator upon your shoulders. That pleases me greatly.’

  As he spoke, the crowd backed away, while the golden helmed palace guard stepped forward, long spears and scimitars raised.

  ‘You’ve got us wrong, Faisal,’ said Drew. ‘We’re not friends of Kesslar’s – we’re his enemies, as are you!’

  ‘Finding your voice now, Wolf? Do you plead for forgiveness?’

  Drew growled as he answered. ‘I’ve done you no wrong. We brought a child to your gate, a girl who’d been attacked upon the river.’

  ‘You brought the body of Prince Fier to our gates, Wolf!’ shouted the king. ‘The child who accompanied him was nowhere to be seen!’

  ‘That’s not true! We had no idea who that corpse was, only that he was heading to Azra when he was attacked! Why else would we bring his body to you? The girl was the only survivor …’

  ‘They kille
d Prince Fier,’ interrupted Rook. ‘You can’t trust the Wolf – no wonder half of Lyssia hunts him. No doubt he and Kesslar’s people are agents of the Doglords, sent here to cause your family further harm. Kill him now, Your Majesty. Do every realm a favour.’

  ‘The child!’ cried Drew. ‘Someone must have seen her! We brought her here along with your slain lord!’

  ‘There was no child,’ said Faisal. ‘What? You thought you could show us the body of my uncle and demand a ransom for my daughter?’

  ‘Your daughter? We brought her back to you! Search for her; you’ll find her!’

  ‘Just words!’ cried Faisal as he paced back up the marble steps to his throne. ‘Even now my warriors make their way to Kaza to seize your ship. I’ll find my daughter, wherever you’ve hidden her, so beg away, Wolf. You’ll say anything now to spare your life!’ He turned to his guards adding, ‘And throw the cyclops a weapon; he’ll need it.’

  Two guards hastily untied the captives. As they stepped back, one threw a scimitar on to the floor, the blade ringing as it struck the marble. Djogo glanced at it and then back to Drew.

  ‘We won’t fight,’ said the ex-slaver, standing shoulder to shoulder with the man he’d sworn his allegiance to.

  Drew spoke. ‘The Djogo you knew may have been a killer, Faisal, but he’s a changed man now.’

  ‘Nobody ever truly changes. Bring the woman.’

  Drew and Djogo watched in alarm as the struggling figure of Lady Shah was dragged into the throne room. She kicked and fought as she was hauled before the king, her hands bound and her face bearing bruises. A white gag was looped around her face, muffling her screams.

  ‘I never forget a face. Lady Shah, isn’t it? A friend of yours and Kesslar’s?’ said Faisal. He aimed the question at Djogo.

  Lord Rook walked over to Shah and gripped her tightly by the arms. The Crow held his cheek close to hers, as a lover might in an embrace.

  ‘Lady Shah,’ he whispered. ‘Daughter of Baron Griffyn. How the Hawks fall …’

  Rook raised a stubby, silver dagger to Shah’s throat, placing the point into the hollow beneath her chin. Her eyes widened, pleading for him to stop.

  ‘You will fight,’ said Faisal. ‘Or the woman dies.’

  ‘Don’t do this, Faisal!’ yelled Drew.

  His words were wasted though, and should have been directed at Djogo. The tall warrior bent down to the ground, snatching up the scimitar. His good eye blinked, as he shook his head.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Drew,’ said the ex-slaver.

  The scimitar scythed through the air.

  3

  Duel

  Drew and Djogo paced around one another across the patterned throne room floor, a black marble mosaic flecked with the bright white stars of the heavens.

  ‘We don’t have to do this,’ said Drew, his feet moving, keeping the distance between them constant. The guards formed a circular wall of spears and swords around them, weapons lashing out when the combatants got too close. A transformed Drew might have bounded over them, but he didn’t fancy his odds of clearing the long spears from a standing jump.

  ‘We do,’ said Djogo, shifting the scimitar in his grip.

  ‘If either of us dies, it’s for what?’

  ‘If you die, it’s so that Shah lives,’ said the warrior. ‘If I die, it’s Brenn’s wish that you go on from here.’

  ‘And if neither of us dies?’

  ‘If neither of us dies … they kill Shah.’ Djogo glanced to where Rook held the Hawklady, the knife jutting into her neck. ‘You heard what he said.’

  Faisal watched from his throne as the other nobles gathered around him, fellow Jackals who shared his hatred for the Wolf and the Goat.

  Rook suddenly shouted, jabbing Shah in the jaw, the blade breaking the surface of her flesh.

  ‘Fight!’

  Shah kicked her heels, boots squeaking as they scraped the marble, unable to writhe away from the Crow’s grip.

  That was enough for Djogo.

  The warrior lunged at Drew, the scimitar cutting an ‘X’ through the air. Though still weary from their encounter at the River Gate, both men were recovered enough to fight for their lives.

  Drew rolled clear as a sword blow hit the marble floor, sending sparks flying. A chunk of the ancient mosaic broke away, skittering across the court. Drew had to keep moving, evading, while he thought of a plan. I can’t kill Djogo. He’s shown faith in me. What kind of man would I be if I betrayed that trust now? He might be blinded by his love for Shah, but there has to be another way!

  Of all the human foes Drew had faced in battle, Djogo was the one he feared the most. He’d been relieved when the tall warrior pledged his allegiance on Scoria, removing the threat that he’d ever fight him again. Drew had given his all, but this was different; he didn’t want to see the man dead. He wanted him to live. He wanted the three of them to live.

  Djogo brought the scimitar down lightning fast towards Drew’s chest. The young Wolflord leaped back, narrowly missing having his stomach opened, only to feel the cold bite of a spearhead in his back. The guard propelled him forward towards Djogo’s return swing, leaving Drew with no option but to dive at him, tackling him around the chest and wrestling him to the floor.

  The two rolled, Drew’s one hand his only means of holding the scimitar back.

  ‘Please, Djogo!’

  ‘There’s no other way!’ grunted the ex-slaver.

  Djogo butted Drew in the face, sending him reeling away, blinded. Instincts kicked in as the Wolflord scrambled, eyes streaming as blood poured from his nose. The scimitar clanged against the floor inches from where he’d landed. The therian shook his head and prayed his vision would return. He heard the scrape of the scimitar as Djogo got to his feet, the blade dragging along the floor. Drew scrambled away from the telltale noise, foolishly forgetting the other perils that faced him in the arena. A guard’s scimitar ripped across his back, felling him with a scream of pain just as his vision cleared.

  Surrounded by a wall of armed warriors, he faced an opponent focused on slaying him. That’s all the Omiri nobles wanted – two hated enemies fighting to the death, slaver versus Werewolf. Drew spat blood on to the marble floor, letting loose a monstrous growl that caused the guards to shift warily.

  Time to give the people what they want.

  The guard with the scimitar took another pot shot at Drew, but his timing couldn’t have been worse. Drew had embraced the change, and all he now saw was a room full of enemies. His clawed foot shot up from the floor, kicking the warrior hard in his chest, sending him flying back through the air. He hit a marble pillar, landing in a crumpled heap, his polished breastplate battered out of shape. By the time his scimitar fell from his unconscious grasp, Drew had fully transformed, the Werewolf crouching on the floor, ready for battle.

  Djogo swung at a surprised guard, disarming him with a deft flick of his scimitar. The guard’s weapon flipped through the air and into Djogo’s other hand, the Werewolf now facing an even deadlier foe. The ex-slaver spun the scimitars at his sides as he closed on the therian.

  Drew watched Djogo’s swirling blades, searching for a way past them. They weren’t silver, but Djogo was adept enough with any weapon to open him up in moments. No therian healing would help him against such serious wounds. The warriors who ringed them were ready now, should either combatant turn on them again. Spears and scimitars hovered, ready to strike out at therian or human should they stagger too close.

  ‘You can’t win this fight!’ growled Drew, moving quickly around the arena.

  ‘One of us has to,’ said Djogo, his voice laden with anger and regret.

  Djogo ran at Drew, preparing to leap into the air to cut down at the Wolf. At the last moment, Drew realized it was a bluff, the warrior hitting the marble floor in a diving slide aimed at taking out the Werewolf’s legs. Drew hurdled the swordsman, narrowly missing his boote
d feet, but the scimitars left a trail of red mist in their wake as they scored the Wolf and he hit the floor with a snarl.

  The Jackals cheered at the sight of the Wolf’s blood. Drew looked down at his torso, his dark, clawed hand dabbing at the wounds the scimitars had left behind. They won’t be content until either Djogo or I lie dead.

  Djogo leaped back again, blades cutting downwards in deadly swipes. When Drew ducked one way the warrior followed, closing off his escape route. He’d switch to the other, only to find him waiting. Years of fighting in the Furnace and across Lyssia had honed Djogo into a formidable fighter, predicting Drew’s every move.

  With an imperceptible glance, Drew marked two spearmen next to one another in the wall, their long weapons poised. Quickly he manoeuvred towards them, avoiding Djogo’s blows while ensuring the two were eventually at his back.

  The Werewolf allowed his huge, clawed feet to strike the ground loudly, black claws scraping the marble and drawing attention. He retreated, one step after another, his head dipped at such an angle that he could still see the guards behind through the corner of his eye. One was unable to resist any longer, bringing his long spear back and stabbing at the Wolf.

  The lycanthrope twisted, turning on his haunches and snatching hold of the spear. With a hard tug on the shaft Drew brought the man flying forward, the guard releasing his grip on the spear and flailing towards Djogo. The one-eyed warrior deflected the hapless spearman with his forearms as the guard struck him, the two hitting the marble together.

  Drew was moving before they’d landed, whipping the long spear around and sprinting. He lowered the spear haft, praying it would find purchase. The hard, wooden end of the weapon clunked into a hole in the broken mosaic, halting his run instantly and sending the Werewolf into the air. To his relief, the spear buckled but didn’t break, launching Drew skywards, vaulting him high over the guards. Their long spears jabbed up but in vain, the monstrous, grey Wolflord sailed above and beyond them.