‘He won’t have gone back that way, not after he witnessed what was done to his companions.’
He jumped back up into his saddle, his horse refreshed by the cold water. ‘North it is. We follow the stream.’
Lord Frost’s force had encountered a large band of travellers earlier that day, around dusk, making their way west through the Longridings. The group had numbered nearly two hundred, mainly civilians, such as farmers, traders and a smattering of Romari. There were also a number of Horselords within their ranks – the Werelords immediately rushing to the defence of their companions when the Lionguard had launched an unprovoked attack against the caravan. The initial offensive had left a sour taste in Trent’s mouth. The fact that Romari were present had been enough for the Redcloaks to decide that the group were the enemy, the travellers’ loyalty to the Wolf and their antics in Cape Gala still fresh in their minds. As it transpired, their hunch had been correct, but Trent had put that down to blind luck rather than reasoned deduction.
The initial battle had been fierce, the Romari and Horselords engaging Redcloaks and Bastians while the remaining refugees fled across the grasslands. Once the enemy had been defeated, at some cost to Frost’s small army, the Catlord had questioned the surviving prisoners. With the aid of Sorin, he had prised a great deal of information from the group, including the knowledge that more Werelords had been travelling with the group, escaping with the other civilians when the battle had commenced. Putting the prisoners to the sword, the Lionguard and Bastians had given chase, gradually picking up those who had fled. The soldiers had cheered as one after another of the refugees had been rounded up and clapped in irons. Only a handful remained at large, and Trent was determined to return to the camp with a trophy of his own.
Trent pushed on along the banks of the brook, Storm picking up pace as the outrider grew in confidence. This is the only way he could have gone. Nowhere left to run. I have you now. The foe must have thought the stream would mask his passage, which it would have done ordinarily. However, the noise of the water rushing over the rocks would also conceal Trent’s approach, the constant gurgling covering the approach of Storm’s hooves. He unsheathed the Wolfshead blade as he rode, controlling his horse by his thighs and heels alone, letting the longsword trail through the air to his right. He sat up in his saddle neck straight, eyes searching the ravine ahead.
‘There you are.’
The figure had collapsed ahead, leaning hard against a boulder that sat in the middle of the stream. The fugitive looked up as he caught sight of the approaching rider. The bearded man grunted, clutching his chest as if in pain. Then he was off, running along the shallow streambed. Trent kicked Storm’s flanks, forcing the horse into a canter.
The fleeing man tripped and stumbled, feet splashing through the icy water. He glanced over his shoulder as Storm thundered closer, gaining on him swiftly. Trent allowed the horse to charge past, her hooves narrowly missing the man but frightening him enough to send him spreadeagled into the stream. He landed face first in the cold water, momentarily blinded as he surfaced, gasping for air. Trent turned Storm around, squeezing his thighs against her back and urging her to rear up, her hooves threatening to strike the enemy.
The fugitive began to change, heavy horns emerged from the old man’s skull, twisting and curling about his head. His short grey beard began to lengthen as his ribcage cracked within his chest, a sound like hammer hitting steel. Trent showed no fear. Here was the trophy he had sought: an enemy therian, a traitorous Werelord. He expertly prompted Storm to lash out, the horse’s hooves connecting with the shifting Werelord’s horned head with a hollow crack.
The man went down on his side, his head bouncing off the rocks on the streambed, his face half submerged in the water. Trent could see the cold liquid rushing through his enemy’s slack mouth, racing into his airways and threatening to fill his lungs. He quickly dismounted, landing beside the Werelord in the water, hooking his arms beneath the fellow’s partially transformed torso. He heaved the therian on to the bank, throwing him on to his stomach and binding him swiftly with ropes.
More riders arrived, the snorting of horses mingling with the cheers and jeers of the soldiers as they looked down at the hog-tied Werelord. The horns around his head reminded Trent of the old ram they had kept on the farm, the tuft of a grey beard beneath his chin further enhancing the resemblance. A Ramlord? There had been one in Cape Gala, at the court of High Stable. Was this the one of the Werelords they’d been searching for? Trent looked back at his companions, smiling proudly. The old therian snorted, rolling on to his side to view his captors.
‘Well done, boys,’ the aged Ramlord spluttered. ‘You chased down an old man.’
‘Chased down a traitor,’ replied Frost, his voice rich and smooth. The Catlord jumped from his horse and landed in the stream, hardly making a splash. His pink eyes widened as he waded towards the bank where the Ram lay, coming to stand beside Trent. He patted the young outrider’s back.
‘Good work, Sergeant Ferran.’
‘Ferran?’ said the Ram incredulously, but the only reply he received was the albino’s boot to the temple. Trent stared down at the bound captive as two of the Bastian warriors hauled him on to the back of one of their horses, puzzling over the prisoner’s reaction to his name.
He knows my name, Trent mused as he clambered back on Storm’s back. He knows Drew.
7
The Stars Over Azra
Alone in the heavens, with only the stars for company, the young Wolflord was transported through time and space. He was a child, back at the farmhouse on the Cold Coast, Tilly Ferran rocking him in her chair while the two of them gazed into the night sky. His mother had the gift, so old Mack always told him: she could read the stars, divine a person’s fortune on a clear, cloudless night. He tried to recall the things she’d promised him, the events she predicted would come to pass, but all he could remember was the smell of her hair and the feel of her hand over his. For the first time in months, Drew felt a tear roll down his cheek.
‘I’m not interrupting you, am I?’
Drew glanced up from the star chart mosaic, wiping the tear from his face with the flat of his hand, as King Faisal paced through the darkness towards him. The rest of the king’s guests were still gathered at the far end of the throne room, feasting one last time before on the eve of war. Djogo and Shah were with them, the frosty relations between the two factions thawing, speeded along by fine food and drink. The Hawklady occasionally looked across the room, concerned by his dark mood. Drew had no appetite for feasting, and even less for company.
‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I was a world away.’
Faisal walked around the mosaic, circling Drew as he remained rooted in the middle.
‘They say Azra is the home of all Lyssia’s knowledge. The art of magistry began here, would you believe it? The libraries beneath the palace would rival any in the Seven Realms, Drew. This city was the seat of learning for Brenn’s wisest children at one time. Terrifying to think that this could all be lost if the Dogs and the Cats overrun our walls.’
‘I recognize the stars,’ said Drew, gesturing to the marble constellations. ‘There’s the Stag, the Serpent. Over there are the Twin Boars.’
‘And you’re standing on the Wolf,’ said Faisal, smiling.
Drew took a step back.
‘So I am.’
‘Not in the mood for a feast? You surprise me. The morning brings danger to all of us; you, with your journey, and us, with impending war. We Jackals always dine as if it’s our last meal on the eve of battle.’
‘I can’t stomach it,’ sighed Drew. ‘Have you heard back from your scouts?’
‘You were right, Wolf. The Hyena’s forces amass to the south of the Silver River. You’ll have to leave swiftly at first light if you’re to sail out of Kaza before they take the port town.’
‘Are you prepared for them?’
‘Azra is always ready for war. This is the Jewel of Omir. It’s been fought over for centuries. This is just one more chapter in this city’s rich history.’
‘You sound as if you’re looking forward to war.’
‘I look forward to action. It’s the waiting I can’t abide. My warriors are ready. Azra’s ready.’
‘But still …’ said Drew, scratching the back of his head as he stared out of the archway that led to the balcony. Hundreds of fires dotted the horizon to the north, twinkling like fireflies over a pitch-black meadow.
‘Don’t hold your tongue now, Drew. If you truly are the king of Westland, then speak freely. It’s been long years since another king has been my guest.’
Drew looked wearily at the handsome Jackal. ‘There are so many of them. You’re badly outnumbered.’
‘You underestimate our defences. Besides, the people will man the walls should the warriors fall.’
‘I fear for your people.’
‘This is their home. They take pride in their land.’
‘Even the slaves?’
Faisal grimaced, shaking his head at the Wolflord. ‘I wouldn’t bring such a matter up if I were you, Drew. We’re just getting to know one another. Politics have killed the greatest friendships as sure as swords before now.’
Drew bit his lip, shaking his head. His mind went back to the belly of the Banshee, to the Furnace and the cruel antics of Kesslar and the Lizardlords. ‘I can’t stand here silent. It goes against all I believe in. I’ve been a slave, Faisal. Walk even one step with a collar round your throat and you may change your tune. No man should be owned by another.’
‘We shall have to agree to disagree, Wolf cub.’
‘Don’t mock me, Faisal,’ said Drew, angry now. ‘I haven’t fought my way back to Lyssia just to sit quietly while a fool spouts barbaric beliefs at me, be he a beggar or a king.’
The Jackal snarled. If any of the palace guard had been present, they might have seized Drew for offending the king so. But the two were alone, facing one another across the ancient mosaic.
‘This is my land, Wolf – my city. Your place is in the West. Keep your so-called enlightened thinking on the other side of the Barebones.’
Drew stepped forward, eyeballing the king. ‘How many slaves are there in this city?’
‘I’ve no idea, they are too many to count.’
‘Estimate for me, Your Majesty.’
‘Tens of thousands, I should imagine.’
‘Tomorrow, your city will be overrun, even if we can call the Hawklords to our side. You haven’t enough warriors to man the walls against three armies.’
‘And what would you propose?’
‘Free them.’
Faisal recoiled as if he’d been slapped in the face.
‘Release the slaves. Grant them citizenship of Azra as free men. Free the slaves and you’ll save your city.’
Faisal stared at Drew, weighing the youth up. He clearly hadn’t expected Drew to speak so frankly to him. Perhaps Drew might have kept silent if he hadn’t been so weary. The thought of journeying to Tor Raptor made his legs feel heavy suddenly. He stifled a yawn.
‘It’s been a long day, Your Majesty, and I must be away before dawn’s first light. I thank you for your hospitality, and your understanding. Until I return, with the Hawklords …’
Drew bowed, turning to walk away, as King Faisal called after him.
‘I don’t understand how turning slaves into free men will save Azra.’
The Wolflord continued to walk away, calling back as he went. ‘Put a roof over a man’s head and you give him a home. Put a sword in his hand and pride in his heart – you give him something to fight for. You give him hope.’
The fire had burned low by the time Drew returned to his bedchamber, just a handful of coals still kicking out heat as the cold air of the desert spread through the room. The guest quarters could have housed the entire Ferran family and their neighbours, the opulence on a scale Drew had never seen before, not even in Scoria. An enormous round bed dominated the room, circular steps leading up to it like a sacrificial altar. The carvings around the marble fireplace were as intricate as anything he’d seen in the Temple of Brenn in Highcliff. Bejewelled curtains billowed round the door on to the balcony, gems flashing like the stars in the night sky beyond. The Azrans did nothing by half-measures.
Even with the thick doors closed at Drew’s back, the noise from the throne room below still echoed through the walls of the palace. Faisal wasn’t lying when he said the Jackals liked to feast the night before a battle. He looked around the room, a nagging sensation descending over him. Something isn’t right. He paused, trying to figure out what irked him, but couldn’t put his finger on it.
Drew shivered, striding towards the balcony, the freezing air raising goosebumps on his flesh. The room felt like a mausoleum, the cold marble only enhancing the sensation. He stared at the fires of the enemy encampments beyond the walls, spreading east to west as far as the eye could see. Does Faisal truly understand the magnitude of what he’s facing? Will he take the advice of a boy like me?
Drew grabbed the handle and pulled the balcony door closed, stopping before he dropped the latch. He suddenly realized what was nagging him: the doors had been closed when he’d left the bedchamber. Drew turned quickly, eyes searching the room. He channelled the Wolf’s senses, his vision heightening instantly as he sniffed at the air. Stepping carefully across the chamber, he reached over to the chest at the foot of the bed. A sheathed longsword rested atop it, a gift from the king and a small token of apology for the treatment Drew and his friends had endured. Drew snatched the handle, shaking the scabbard from the blade where it fell quietly on to the rug.
He snorted at the air once more, picking up the scent of the intruder. With his lupine eyes now adjusted to the dim light, he could see through the gloom as if it were day. He pulled at the jewel-encrusted curtains, tearing them clear of the windows to reveal what they hid, but found nothing. He leaped across the room towards the tall closet, flicking the door open only to find it empty. Lastly he dashed back towards the bed, dancing up the steps and pulling back the sheets from where they hung to the marble floor. Ducking down, Drew looked beneath the bed. There was nobody there. The prowler was gone.
He collapsed on to the enormous round bed, his heart beating fast, relieved to not be caught in a fight once more but disappointed to have not captured his intruder. He turned his head, the moonlight that streamed through the glass doors illuminating the clean white sheets that spread out before him. Drew’s eyes widened. There you are.
A single long feather lay on his pillow, black as night itself. Drew shivered as he reached across and picked it up, the waxy texture sliding across his skin. He turned it between his fingertips, considering the gift’s meaning. Rook was watching him. There would be no hiding from the Crowlord.
8
A Welcome in Tuskun
The dogs’ paws pounded through the deep snow, hauling the sleds through the blizzard, whipcracks urging them on their way. Hector lay on his side, lashed to the sledge as a hunter might bind his kill. Goyt, an old Sturmish pelt-trader caught trapping in the queen’s woods, lay strapped down before him, head tucked to his chest, the cold and exhaustion having taken their toll on him. Hector felt Ibal’s fat belly at his back; the magister was grateful for the warmth of his portly Boarguard. The rogue’s giggles had ceased two days ago back in Friggia, the mob having worked some of their anger out on the three southerners before throwing them in the jail for the remainder of the night. They’d departed the Sturmish port at first light, heading inland on a handful of dog sleds, heading for the City of the Walrus.
Ringlin was on one of the other sledges, bound to some other criminals who were being transported to Tuskun. The cold was unbearable, the temperature having remained well below freezing during their entire journey. Hector’s teeth chattered incessantly, his e
ntire body struggling with the extreme conditions. Who could have imagined the warmth of Ibal’s fat belly might keep him alive? There were six of them in all being taken to Slotha, each responsible for very different crimes. The queen of Tuskun was a notoriously ill-tempered, violent woman: he hoped the Walrus would allow him the chance to speak in his defence.
The driver let out a cheer, the noise echoing over the chasing sleds. Hector craned his neck, looking up ahead to where they headed. The blizzard lifted briefly, allowing the magister a clear view of Tuskun’s jagged black walls as they loomed into view. To describe the outer defence as a wall was an exaggeration; giant slabs of grey slate had been driven into the ground around the entire city, dozens of tall wooden watchtowers dotted around its circumference. The sharp, splintered defences reminded Hector of Vega’s teeth when the Sharklord was transformed: fearsome and deadly.
Not so deadly in the end, eh, brother? whispered the Vincent-vile slyly.
Timber gates groaned open, a portcullis grinding clear out of the sleds’ path as they raced past beneath it. The city within bore little resemblance to any civilized settlement Hector had ever visited. It was little more than a shantytown, a crowded slum, the locals standing aside as the dog sleds raced up the slippery, stinking streets, a steaming river of feculence steadily streaming beside the road. Hector gagged at the stench as the whip cracked overhead and the driver yelled at his hounds.
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