Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  And landed on the throne.

  The nobles roared at the sight of the Wolf straddling King Faisal, pinning him to his seat. Canine features appeared in a wave, the Jackal-lords changing and howling for the Wolf’s blood. Faisal bellowed with shock as Drew snatched him round the throat, his clawed feet digging into the king’s thighs, drawing blood through the once-pristine white robes. Though the king’s head expanded, transforming into the Jackal as his features distorted, his throat remained the size of a mortal man’s in Drew’s lupine grip. Faisal choked, his airways cut off. The Jackal’s eyes bulged as Drew bared his teeth, holding his grip as the king floundered in a blind panic.

  While many warriors rushed to their king’s aid, others overpowered Djogo, tearing the scimitars from his grip before he was inspired to do anything foolish. He looked on with awe as the Wolf held Omir to ransom.

  ‘Kill the Wolf!’ screamed Rook from nearby, baring Shah’s throat once more, a jagged red cut now visible where he’d sliced her with the blade.

  ‘Call off your dogs!’ said Drew, his lips peeled back as he growled into the Werejackal’s ear.

  Faisal glanced frantically from side to side, his hands out to his family, warning them to retreat. Drew allowed his grip to relax, enough to allow the Jackal to breathe. He gasped at the air, struggling to get oxygen past the Werewolf’s claws.

  ‘Tell the Crow to release Shah,’ said Drew. ‘Now!’

  ‘Let … her … go!’ whispered the king through his clenched throat.

  Rook watched with disbelief, shaking Shah like a rag doll.

  ‘But, Your Majesty …’

  ‘Release her!’ said Faisal.

  Reluctantly the Crowlord let Shah go, the Hawklady stumbling to Djogo, who pulled himself free of the guards and tore her gag away. The two held one another, as if their lives depended upon it.

  ‘You won’t get out of this palace alive, Wolf!’ spat Faisal, strangled in Drew’s grip.

  The Werewolf tightened his hold again. ‘I’ll get all the way to Westland with my hand around your throat if I have to, Faisal!’ snarled Drew. ‘It didn’t have to be like this,’ he went on, the fury momentarily gone from his voice. ‘I told you the truth, Faisal, and you chose to ignore me. We came here in peace, but you ensure we leave as enemies …’

  ‘She’s returned!’

  The woman’s cry echoed through the throne room as her footsteps raced through the hall towards the throne. Whoever she was, she was oblivious to the drama that played out in front of her. Her voice was cheery as she approached, more guards accompanying her into the chamber.

  ‘See, my love! She’s returned to us!’

  The woman looked up at the last. Jackals’ heads looked down upon her as her shocked eyes landed upon the king, helpless in the Werewolf’s grip. She held the girl from the skiff in her arms, the child’s big almond eyes wide as she clutched the woman’s chest.

  ‘My daughter …’ said Faisal, the fight instantly gone from his body.

  Drew looked from the king down to the child, who raised a trembling finger towards the Werewolf.

  ‘It’s him, mother,’ she said, sniffing back the tears. The girl’s featured softened suddenly, from fear to admiration.

  ‘He’s the one who saved me.’

  4

  The Port at the End of the World

  There were few places in Lyssia as remote and inhospitable as Friggia. Situated on the northernmost point of Beggars’ Bay, it was the one port in Sturmland that the Sturmish people avoided. Linked by road to the Rat city of Vermire and Lady Slotha’s city of Tuskun, the Walrus had claimed the town for herself. While the majority of the Tuskun fleet were harboured in Blackbank on the southern coast of the Sturm Peninsula, a few of her warships considered Friggia, on the northern coast, their home, launching raids against those brave souls who dared sail the Sturmish Sea. Like their neighbours in Vermire, the Tuskuns were pirates to the core.

  With a snowstorm having descended, any other harbour in Lyssia would have been deserted, but not Friggia. The hour was late and the weather grim, but the Tuskun port was in no mood to sleep, with both streets and ships busy with activity. However, while the largest piers and docks that housed the bigger ships were bustling, the smaller jetties were quieter, all but deserted, with fishing boats moored for the night. Three figures stood on the end of one such jetty, shrouded in swirling snow. Behind them, a rowing boat was being tied up, and a handful of men clambered up from it on to the wooden walkway.

  ‘By Brenn’s whiskers,’ said Manfred. ‘I thought it was cold in the Barebones but this is something else!’

  ‘You’re in the north now, Your Grace,’ said Hector. ‘They don’t do anything by half measures up here.’

  The reluctant new captain of the Maelstrom, Figgis, had nothing to say, watching the six other men finish securing the rowboat before they came over to join them.

  ‘Are we clear as to our tasks?’ asked Manfred, looking to each of them. ‘Captain Figgis is to remain here with the boat while we split into two groups.’

  Manfred pointed to the ship’s cook, Holman, and the grey looking fellow nodded back. ‘Master Holman, I’ll accompany you while you see about getting some fresh produce for the stores – meat, vegetables, whatever passes for food up here in the rear end of nowhere. Hector,’ Manfred nodded at the young Boarloard, ‘you’ll procure drinking water for the ship, in addition to something a bit stronger as a reward for the boys. Let’s keep it quiet, eh? Last thing we want to do is attract unwanted attention to our visit.’

  Hector’s face was stoic and humourless. ‘You can count on me, Your Grace.’

  Ringlin and Ibal waited for their master a short distance away along the jetty. Both were well wrapped up against the elements, while Hector wore his cloak hood down, careless of the bitter snowstorm. The magister was about to follow his men when he stopped, turning to Manfred and placing his gloved left hand on the duke’s arm.

  ‘Is everything all right, Manfred?’ asked Hector quietly and earnestly, dropping the formalities he’d used before the men.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Hector?’ blustered the Staglord, glancing at the magister’s hand on his wrist.

  ‘You haven’t seemed yourself lately, especially since that awful business with Vega and that poor boy going missing.’

  Manfred sighed, wearily staring at the young Boarlord from beneath his bushy grey brow.

  ‘Which of us has been ourselves since the disappearance of the count, Hector? It’s a terrible thing to come to terms with. It’s … unbelievable … that something so tragic could befall our friend on his own ship, no?’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Hector, nodding. ‘Just so you know; I’m always here to talk to, should you wish to unburden yourself of anything. We friends must stick together.’

  ‘Friends,’ agreed Manfred, smiling sadly. ‘Together.’

  The duke shook the baron’s hand before turning back to his complement of men from the Maelstrom. With no further word the group split up, setting off into Friggia with their own very different agendas.

  ‘That wasn’t the agreed price,’ said Hector, wagging a finger at the innkeeper.

  The two men stood on the frozen cobbles of the alleyway that ran the length of the Black Gate Tavern, cellar doors open at their feet. Lantern light from below was cast skyward, illuminating the haggling pair, their men working together beneath the inn.

  ‘That’s the price now,’ said the innkeeper, jutting his jowls out confidently.

  ‘Is that how you do things up here? Renege on business deals at your whim?’

  ‘That’s how we’re doing things tonight. I don’t give a tinker’s cuss how you do things in … Highcliff …’

  The innkeeper let his sentence trail away, grinning.

  So, whispered the Vincent-vile. He knows where we’re from, eh? Sounds like a threat, brother. He’s a cocky one, isn’t he?
>
  A solitary dray horse stood nearby harnessed to a cart, its head bowed, eyes fixed on the men in dispute. Ringlin and Ibal were working with the innkeeper’s hulking barrel-boy in the cellar, rolling three large barrels towards the hatch-ramp. The barrel-boy was a mute giant of a man, who said nothing and did all his master commanded; a child trapped in a man’s body was the expression that leaped to Hector’s mind. The two rogues glanced up as Hector negotiated, paying close attention to where the conversation was heading.

  ‘It sounds like you’re getting greedy, sir,’ said Hector, his gaunt cheekbones lifting slightly as he managed a sickly smile.

  ‘I’m a businessman, that’s all. Way I see it you’re not just paying me for the barrels of brandy, boy.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’re paying for my silence.’

  Hector shook his head from side to side. ‘I swear, why does it always have to end this way?’ he said in a tired and irritated voice. He lifted his left hand and opened his palm.

  Instantly the innkeeper was spluttering as he struggled with the invisible force tangled around his throat. Hector tightened his grip in the air, watching his brother’s vile twist around the neck of the innkeeper like a deadly black noose.

  ‘You had every chance of doing a nice bit of business with me tonight and walking away with your life. Three barrels of brandy, that’s all I asked for. We had a deal; we shook on it. I distinctly recall shaking on it, don’t you?’

  The man collapsed to his knees, eyes bulging as his fingernails clawed at his fat throat, tearing the skin away in strips.

  ‘Greed, sir; a terrible, ugly thing, I’m sure you’ll agree. I’d love to say it was pleasant doing business with you, but …’

  Hector clenched his fist tight, mind focused solely on the vile as he saw the phantom’s attack through to its grisly end. Whereas previously, back in Highcliff, his control over the vile had been sporadic, inspired by surging emotions, since his encounter with the host on the White Isle he had a deeper understanding of his abilities. He yanked his hand back through the air, as if tugging a rope. The innkeeper’s throat made a wet snapping sound, before he fell to the floor, neck broken.

  Hector looked into the cellar where Ringlin, Ibal and the barrel-boy stared back. The man-child looked worried now, the realization of what had just happened suddenly dawning on him. He stared at the Boarguard who let the final barrel roll to a halt at the base of the ramp. Ibal pulled his sickle from his belt, while Ringlin gently unsheathed his long knife, twirling the blade as they advanced on the barrel-boy. From his vantage point above Hector lost sight of the trio as the giant mute retreated fearfully into the recesses of the cellar.

  Done, brother.

  Hector was surprised at Vincent. There was a new understanding between magister and vile, as if the spirit realized its master had unlocked a great many secrets that had previously been hidden. The Vincent-vile was showing a newfound respect to Hector, fear playing a large part in that. The host had hinted many things to Hector as it fed from his throat. It had shown him how to inflict pain, not just on the living, but the dead.

  Even with a world of dark magick at his fingertips, waiting to be explored, Hector found himself wavering. He’d done what had to be done to get rid of Vega. He knew the Sharklord would have betrayed him in time; he’d already humiliated him in front of Bethwyn at every opportunity. Hector only regretted the fact that he’d allowed the sea marshal to get so close to him. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. For the first time ever, Hector felt in control of his magistry.

  The innkeeper had brought it on himself. He’d been an enemy of the Wolf’s Council, and Hector had to eliminate him. Who could have imagined that his knowledge of dark magicks could actually be used for good? Despite the freezing cold that bit at his face, Hector felt a warmth in his heart that had been missing for too long. He was helping Drew once again, helping what was left of the Wolf’s Council, with his Brenn-given gift.

  Stepping over the dead body, Hector made his way towards the street, where the singing of folk inside the Black Gate Tavern spilled out of the door. It was only a matter of time before the innkeeper’s clientele realized he was missing. Hector looked back over his shoulder as the first barrel emerged from the cellar, the Boarguard working it into the alley. It was time to return to the Maelstrom. Hurriedly, the two rogues loaded up the wagon before setting off back to the harbour.

  Ibal cracked his whip over the nag’s head and the dray horse picked up its pace along the slippery dock road. With their task completed quicker than expected, Hector was hopeful they’d be back at the rowboat first. It’d be good to show Manfred how capable he was, after everything that had gone on in the recent weeks. The duke’s people had looked after Hector in Highcliff when he’d been taken ill, allowing him to convalesce in Buck House. After the chaos in Moga and the White Isle, and with Vega finally out of the way, Hector felt it was time to repay the Staglord for the many kindnesses he’d shown him. Arriving back at the boat, mission accomplished, was the first step towards Hector proving his trustworthiness to Manfred once more.

  Three barrels of brandy and four casks of fresh water sat in the back of the cart with Hector, his men riding up front. As they pulled away, the magister couldn’t help but stare back in the direction of the Black Gate Tavern. Customers were already exiting the inn as they’d left, in search of the fat oaf who had run the place after he’d failed to return to the bar. Judging by the shouting that had begun to chase them down the lane, they’d found his body, and that of the slain simpleton in the cellar. Hector glanced back nervously at the thick grooves the wagon wheels had cut into the snow-covered floor of the lane. A trail to follow: the sooner they were back aboard the Maelstrom the better. The last thing Hector needed was a hue and cry on his back with the miserable servants of Slotha hunting him.

  Pulling up at the jetty where Figgis had moored the boat, the Boarguard jumped into the back of the dray, clambering past Hector to unload the barrels. The distant cries of angry men told the Boarlord all he needed to know. Here’s hoping old Manfred’s right behind us, then, thought Hector as he jumped down on to the frozen cobbles.

  He walked up the jetty, boots slapping the frosty timber planks as he strode through the stiff gale. He slowed as he neared the remaining length of the wooden pier, coming to a staggering halt.

  The rowboat was gone.

  Initially Hector thought he’d come to the wrong jetty, but that was impossible; there were only a couple at this end of the harbour, and this was certainly the one. He then noticed the other vessels that had been moored along the jetty had been cut free – coracles, fishing boats and the like. A couple drifted some distance away in the choppy, black water.

  Cut free.

  He looked across to the next pier; again, the rowboats had been released, their only means of returning to the Maelstrom had been snatched away. He ran back to the dock road, finding his two companions rolling the first barrel along the planking towards him.

  ‘Stop what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘The boat’s gone. We need to find Manfred, let him know Figgis has abandoned us.’

  But even as he said it, he knew what had happened.

  ‘What’s that, my lord?’ asked Ringlin, his face white with worry. Ibal gave a sickly, nervous giggle, looking back up the docks towards where torches and lanterns had begun to appear. Ringlin was shocked to see his master smile.

  ‘So that was your game then, Manfred?’ Hector said, to himself as much as anyone else.

  If his men understood, they didn’t respond, instead drawing their weapons.

  The Stag shows his true colours, brother; the last of the Wolf’s Council stabs you in the back. You can trust nobody.

  ‘You’re right for once, Vincent,’ Hector said, walking past Ringlin and Ibal to stand in front of the horse and cart.

  ‘What are you doing, my lord?’ said Ringlin, his voice etched with panic as the approaching mob ma
terialized through the swirling snowstorm, following the telltale passage of the dray through the white streets.

  Hector stood calmly as the men appeared. Within moments they had surrounded the Boarlord and his henchmen. Ringlin and Ibal held their weapons at the ready; if they were to die, they’d take some of the Walrus’s men with them. The locals were already shouting, calling to see the colour of the Westlanders’ innards.

  Hector raised his hands, palms out to the mob. ‘Silence,’ he said simply.

  A cold unlike anything the men of Friggia had experienced before suddenly descended over the mob. To each man it felt as if Death’s skeletal hand had traced a bony finger across their hearts, silencing them instantly. Hector smiled.

  ‘Take me to the Werewalrus, Lady Slotha.’

  ‘It is done,’ said Manfred as he clambered back aboard the Maelstrom, the crew helping the elderly duke find his footing on the icy deck. Amelie and Bethwyn stood waiting for them, arms around one another as the frosty wind whipped around them.

  ‘He cannot follow?’ asked Amelie.

  ‘Not unless he fancies a bracing swim,’ replied Figgis, the last man to climb up from the rowboat.

  ‘I hope to Brenn we’ve done the right thing,’ said the queen, squeezing her lady-in-waiting in a fearful embrace.

  ‘Don’t you be worryin’ about nothin’,’ said Figgis, before turning to the Staglord. ‘Where to, Your Grace?’

  ‘Onwards to Roof, dear captain,’ said Manfred. ‘And from there to Icegarden, and the protection of Duke Henrik. I pray he’s in a generous mood.’

  5

  A Captive Audience

  From the lofty balcony, Drew’s view of Omir was as great as any in the Desert Realm. To the east the Sabre Sea bled across the horizon, separating sand from sky. To the west the Barebone Mountains stood tantalizingly close, their snow-capped peaks glistening like diamonds. Drew glanced down. The city sprawled below the palace, while the gleaming outer wall of Azra kept it safe. A road ran atop the wall’s entire circumference, with soldiers, wagons and teams of horses moving along it, above the city. Only two gatehouses allowed entrance to the city: Copper Gate to the north, and Silver Gate to the south. These structures were as big as many castles in the west, housing garrisons of warriors who manned the defences; so long as the walls stood, Azra remained Faisal’s.