Glancing below Drew spied the Behemoth, dragging the wounded Krieg to safety through a crowd of alarmed camels. By Brenn’s grace the silver arrow embedded in the Rhino’s chest hadn’t proved fatal. The Weremammoth looked up, noticing Drew as he pointed across to the other hayloft with his sword.
‘Take its legs!’ shouted Drew, and the giant instantly understood.
Leaning Krieg against the wall, the Weremammoth swung his enormous stone mallet around his head. The therianthrope transformed with each rotation, the weapon’s speed increasing with the Mammoth’s burgeoning muscles. Finally he brought it round into one of the supporting posts that held the hayloft up. The mallet’s stone head shattered the pillar in two, sending the ceiling crashing down around him. Fearless, the Behemoth remained where he was, raising a huge arm over his head as beams and floorboards crashed down on top of him, along with the trio of assassins.
As the dust settled, Drew looked across the stable, searching the debris below for Taboo. There was no sign of her, only the broken limbed corpses of the black-kashed warriors.
‘Up here, Wolf!’
To his relief, Drew saw the Weretiger suspended from a rafter across the way. She hauled herself over the beam, holding a hand to her bloodied side. Drew leaned on the balcony, chest heaving as he returned to human form. Below, Griffyn staggered over to Krieg, the two Werelords comparing their near-fatal wounds. The Behemoth, cloaked in sawdust and splintered wood, waved a mighty hand up towards Drew, his voice rumbling through the devastation.
‘We need to go.’
By the time the people of Two Rivers had investigated why camels were roaming their miserable, dust-ridden streets, the five therians had departed. Taking the sturdiest mounts they could find, the riders took a trail through the foothills that followed the southern branch of the river, leaving the barter town behind them.
The terrain was barren and rocky, vegetation sparse, the environment utterly inhospitable. Here and there the odd gnarled tree had managed to survive against the odds, its roots gripping the rocky slopes for dear life as the cold winds battered it.
The Behemoth brought up the rear of the group, riding the stockiest workhorse any of the therians had ever seen. Taller and uglier than the mountain ponies the others were riding, it had a broad back, thick legs and a desire to carry heavy burdens. None came heavier than the Behemoth, or less experienced at riding for that matter. After suffering the horse’s attempts to buck him off, Weremammoth and mount had struck an uneasy alliance, riding in stalemated silence. His companions bit their lips, resisting the temptation to tease him over his newfound friend.
Griffyn led the way, with Drew at his back. Taboo followed the Wolf, with Krieg close behind. Taboo had declined her companions’ attention, insisting the cut along her side was a mere graze. I’ve never encountered a tougher woman, thought Drew, ever amazed by both her strength and stubbornness. The Rhino had taken care of his chest wound while the others readied their horses, Griffyn staunching the bleeding with dressings from his pack. In obvious discomfort, Krieg had stifled his complaints on the uncomfortable ride.
‘So who were they?’ said Drew, his pony shadowing Griffyn’s in front.
‘I doubt we’ll ever know,’ replied the Hawklord. ‘They carried no clues as to who was behind the ambush.’
‘They could have been anyone’s agents: Dog, Cat, Hyena … Crow!’
‘Their choice of weapons is most alarming: silver. The Scorians used it to keep therian gladiators in check, but in Lyssia? It was outlawed across the entire continent, yet these assassins used it by blade and bow. Such a deadly metal doesn’t come cheap; our enemies have wealthy benefactors.’
Drew thought back to the scars on his back from his time as a prisoner in Highcliff, whipped by the silver studded whip of Captain Brutus.
‘The Catlords reintroduced silver to Lyssia.’
‘Another connection then, tying your enemies together, Wolf,’ said Griffyn, kicking his pony’s flanks to encourage her on.
The night was beginning to close in as Drew looked back. The lights of Two Rivers shone below; would anybody follow them, seeking retribution for the death of the men in the stable? Further back, across the desert, the horizon glowed: Azra. Are those the fires of the enemy camps? Or does the city burn? Drew looked ahead once more at the trail disappearing into the distance, following the stream that tumbled down the rocky slope towards them. Drew stared up at the mountains, their snow-capped summits glowing dully in the twilight.
‘I just hope we stay well ahead of our enemies,’ said Drew, urging his mount after Griffyn’s.
‘We must remain alert, Drew,’ said Griffyn, his eyes scanning the mountains in front of them. His mountains.
‘I fear we’ve been watched since we first set foot on to Omir’s sands, young Wolf. The enemy follows our every move.’
2
The Wrong Answers
The soldiers of the Lionguard were in a relaxed mood, gathered around their fires, playing cards and tossing bones. Sorin led the festivities, winning more than his fair share of coin from his men. The Bastian contingent of Lord Frost’s force remained removed from their comrades, polishing armour and sharpening weapons. The albino Catlord had retired to his tent, dining on the best food that his warriors had confiscated from the people of the Longridings. With the camp pre-occupied, it was relatively easy for Trent to enter the prisoner’s tent unnoticed. Letting the door flap swing shut behind him, he looked down upon the captive Werelord.
‘Tell me,’ Trent said, standing over the bound prisoner. ‘What was he like?’
Baron Ewan looked up slowly. The Ramlord’s face was a rich palette of bruises, a mask of purple, black and blue. Sorin had used the flat of his silver-blessed longsword on the Lord of Haggard, beating the old man about head and body, dealing him injuries that could only heal over a mortal span of time. Nobody had tended the old man’s wounds.
‘Who?’ asked Ewan, through broken lips. His left eye was closed shut, while his bloodshot right was fixed squarely on Trent.
‘The Wolf – Drew,’ replied Trent, trying to sound cold and impassive.
The old Werelord studied him. ‘Why so interested?’
‘What kind of man is he? We hear so many things. How did you find him?’
Ewan smiled, his swollen lips tearing anew through the bruising. He winced, arching his back, catching his breath.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Trent, concern creeping into his voice.
‘Chest,’ said the Ram.
Lord Frost had ensured that his interrogators had thoroughly worked Ewan over. The Catlord had even participated himself, the Ram’s greatest screams caused by the albino. Trent hadn’t the stomach to witness the torturing of prisoners. He could kill a man, at the command of his superior officers, but torture wasn’t why he’d signed up to the Lionguard.
Trent could see the rolls of tightly bound ropes that wound around the beaten old man, securing him to the stake in the ground. Therianthrope or not, the bonds were excessive. Sorin and his cronies had battered the baron to within an inch of his life, his hands broken by the cruel captain’s zealous work. Trent crouched and loosened the ropes, letting a clutch of them fall to the ground.
Ewan relaxed a little, leaning back and straightening his bent legs, bringing his bound hands up before him to massage his chest. Trent filled a mug of water for the Werelord, holding it to his lips as Ewan drank thirstily.
‘My boy,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you.’
‘Why?’
‘That was the greatest drink I’ve ever savoured in my long and glorious life. A barrel of the Redwine’s finest couldn’t compete with it.’
Trent smiled, taking the cup away. ‘The Wolf,’ he said again. ‘What of him?’
‘He came to me in Haggard, a prisoner of the Goatlord, Kesslar. He was thrown into the cells beneath my keep alongside my people and I. We got to know one an
other. He had no reason to lie when he recounted all he’d been through. The death of his parents at the hands of the Lion and the Rats …’
‘He killed my mother!’ interrupted Trent.
Ewan sighed. ‘Did you want to hear my story?’
Trent grimaced, before nodding. The Ramlord continued.
‘Drew was instrumental in freeing my people, helping us rise against our enemies. He then rode south, and I accompanied him as he sought to save Lady Gretchen from the claws of Prince Lucas.’
Ewan paused, expecting the young Redcloak to cut in once more. When he didn’t, he carried on.
‘Lucas and Vanmorten took Cape Gala from the Horselords, stole the sovereign state from the people of the Longridings – my people – with the help of the Bastian invaders. While the majority sailed north to attack Highcliff, a small force was left behind in Cape Gala. Once again, Drew came to the aid of his friends, trying to rescue them from Vankaskan.’
Ewan hung his head.
‘I betrayed him. I handed him over to the monster, Vankaskan. I recognize that villain, Sorin, as one of his. My boy, they turned High Stable into a monstrous circus, slaying Werelords and humans alike. Only their torment didn’t end there. The Rat did such vile things …’
‘What more of the Wolf?’
‘He was gone,’ whispered Ewan. ‘Disappeared. At one moment, he was on the balcony; the next, gone. Vanished on the wind. I don’t know what happened to him.’
Trent couldn’t look at the baron. He didn’t want to believe him, but much of what the old therian said made sense. Still, he’d seen what had happened back on the family farm. Drew had turned on Ma.
‘But Drew,’ said Trent. ‘He’s a monster! He’s a Werewolf, for Brenn’s sake!’
‘There are monsters across Lyssia – human and therian alike. Your brother’s a good man.’
‘He killed our moth–’ Trent stopped, biting his lip. ‘How did you know he was my brother?’
‘You didn’t say as much, but I’d heard mention of a Sergeant Ferran,’ sighed Ewan. ‘They might have beaten me, but not entirely senseless. My hearing works well enough. You and Drew are brothers?’
‘Were brothers,’ corrected Trent. ‘Until he killed my ma.’
Ewan shook his head sadly. ‘You believe everything you’re told, lad?’
‘I saw it with my own eyes, old man! Don’t think to lecture me on the Wolf’s true nature. Nobody knows Drew better than I!’
‘I fear you believe what you want to, Master Ferran. Could it be you’re mistaken?’
‘You know nothing. He’s pulled the wool over your eyes, Sheeplord, clearly. My brother could charm his way into any fool’s heart.’
‘There you go,’ said the old man. ‘My brother – the bond is strong between you. Search your heart, boy. You know I’m telling you the truth …’
Ewan was cut short as Trent stepped forward, his fist raised above his head, ready to strike. The Ramlord’s bruised eyes went as wide as the swelling would allow, the aged therian shrinking back in anticipation of the blow. Trent wavered, snarling. He stepped behind him swiftly, binding Ewan’s ropes once again. Trent knew rope mastery as well as anyone, having learned under his father back on the Ferran farm. He gave them a sharp tug, the Ramlord’s battered arms creaking as he was secured once more.
Trent got up. ‘Keep your poisonous words to yourself in future, you old fool,’ he said.
‘It was you who came to me, seeking answers,’ said Ewan as Trent strode out of the tent – straight into Lord Frost, chewing on a haunch of bloody meat. Trent jumped with shock.
‘It’s lamb,’ said the Catlord, offering it to Trent. The youth looked at the meat: any rarer and it would still be bleating.
‘No thank you, my lord,’ replied Trent, regaining his composure. ‘My appetite is lacking.’
‘Speaking with the prisoner, eh? Did he offer us anything new?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘It’s Frost, remember. You and I are friends now, Trent, just remember that.’ The Catlord took another bite of the lamb and looked at the tent door. ‘You’ve just reminded me. Our prisoner should never be left unguarded. I’ll speak with Sorin; arrange for a guard to be posted on the Ram at all times. Good man, Trent. Go get yourself some rest.’
Trent bowed nervously, his cheeks flushed with colour at having been discovered speaking with the prisoner. He strode away in the direction of the corral; his horse, Storm, needed bedding down for the night. He glanced back as he walked away. Frost watched him go, tearing another mouthful of meat from the joint of lamb. Trent turned his gaze to the ground, feeling the Catlord’s eyes burning holes in his back.
Fool, Trent, he berated himself. Giving Frost cause to distrust me. That’s the last time I seek answers.
3
Tor Raptor’s Mercy
If the foothills of Omir had appeared treacherous, nothing had prepared the travellers for the perilous trail through the Barebones. Another old mountain road had led to Windfell, but the group had passed it by. The city of the Hawklords wasn’t their destination; it was their tomb they sought, high up in the sky. Only Griffyn seemed at ease, the old Hawk returning home for the first time in fifteen years, while his fellow therians gripped the reins of their mounts with white knuckles. At the rear, the Behemoth was slumped in the saddle of his stocky horse. Krieg and Taboo were in front of him, the ravine drop to their right bringing on terrible bouts of vertigo. Further ahead, Drew followed Griffyn closely, his reins wrapped around his trident dagger.
Occasionally Drew glanced into the chasm, a morbid fascination with the deadly drop luring him like a moth to candlelight. With each of his horse’s steps, the hooves dislodged stones that skittered away from the path, bouncing off the sloping rock and disappearing into space. Drew brought his eyes back to Griffyn ahead, smacking his lips as he breathed the cold, thin air. The wind changed direction with alarming regularity, sudden updrafts replaced by blustering downdrafts that threatened to knock the riders from their saddles. As they climbed Tor Raptor the Mighty, giant of the Barebones, wispy clouds drifted all about her and the surrounding peaks.
Griffyn twisted around, smiling at the pale-faced Wolflord. ‘Breathtaking?’
‘And then some,’ replied Drew as another gust of wind hit him. ‘But I’m struggling to breathe, here. How much further?’
‘Some way yet, cub. See that?’
Griffyn pointed ahead to where the cliffs of Tor Raptor appeared to collide with those of the neighbouring mountain, as if the two giant landmasses had collapsed against one another. The path was all but invisible, with a thin sliver of vertical light the only indication that the trail emerged on the other side. The drop between the two vanished into gloomy blackness, swallowed up by the enormous ravine’s dark depths.
‘I see it,’ shouted Drew over the wind. ‘But I don’t like it!’
‘The Falling Road: it’s not to be liked, it’s to be endured! We travel to the tomb of my fathers. Look about you, Wolf – see the burial sites and barrows of my kinsmen.’
Drew looked up, scouring the cliffs for sign of human or therian touch. There they were, dotting the mountain hundreds of feet above. At first glance they appeared to be rock formations, but closer inspection revealed them to be cairns, tall spires of rocks that the Hawklords had placed to mark out the chambers of the dead.
‘The tombs of the Hawklords, Baron Griffyn? Left unguarded on a mountain side?’
‘You think we fear graverobbers in the Barebones, Drew? If the mountain doesn’t kill you, there are other things on Tor Raptor that protect our tombs. My forefathers do not readily relinquish their worldly goods, even in death …’
Griffyn let this last statement hang in the air, the sinister implication not lost on Drew. Even in death?
The Hawklord swung in his saddle, leaning precariously out to see around Drew. The Wolflord blanched when he imagined th
e old man tumbling from his seat.
‘Our friends look unwell,’ chortled Griffyn. ‘It appears the Barebones aren’t for the faint-hearted!’
‘You might feel like them if you weren’t a Hawklord!’ said Drew in their defence.
‘You forget, young Wolf,’ said Griffyn, gesturing at his shoulders with a hooked thumb. ‘My wings were taken from me many years ago. If I fall here, I’d be as dead as anyone else. Lean forward in your saddle, respect the path, and pray the mountain remains merciful.’
The Hawklord cast his hand heavenwards, the snowcapped giant of the Barebones towering above them.
‘You are in Tor Raptor’s talons now!’
As fierce as the winds had been on the cliff path an hour before, nothing had prepared the therians for the gale that greeted them on the Falling Road. Dismounting when they approached the monstrous chasm, Drew had marvelled at the sheer cliffs on either side as they reached across to one another. He whispered a brief, heartfelt prayer to Brenn as he followed Griffyn into the darkness, leading his pony along behind.
The Hawklord had warned them to keep their voices low when traversing the Falling Road. Avalanches were commonplace, where massive boulders had caught between the cliffs, weighed down with packed ice, waiting for the chance to break free and plummet towards the road. As if the threat from above and raging winds weren’t enough, the path was nothing more than scree. The therians’ feet and ponies’ hooves scrambled for purchase as they passed over the ice and gravel. Frequently, Drew found himself casting his trident dagger out, grateful for the barbed weapon as he snatched hold of the cliff wall to stop himself from falling.
While Griffyn had little trouble on the path, the same could not be said for Taboo, Krieg and the Behemoth. The Weremammoth had taken some persuading to traverse the treacherous road, and his companions shared his concerns. These people were from jungles and savannas, not freezing mountains. This world was alien to them. With words of encouragement from Drew and Griffyn they’d continued on, none wishing to break their oath to the young Wolflord. Their loyalty and courage filled Drew’s heart with hope.
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 25
