Ahead, Griffyn waited, cloak wrapped around his body as defence against the freezing wind. His pony hunkered against the cliff face, sheltering as best it could, as Drew slowly and carefully approached. His voice was controlled when he spoke over the howling gale.
‘We need to pick up our pace, Drew. The night closes in. If we can get beyond the Falling Road we may find somewhere to pitch camp before tackling the summit tomorrow.’
Drew looked back, spying Taboo appearing around the cliff path a hundred yards or so behind. The others were behind the Weretiger, somewhere – hopefully making steady and safe progress.
He turned back to Griffyn, squinting as sleet peppered his face.
‘How far to the end?’
‘We’re halfway through,’ replied the Hawklord.
Only halfway, thought Drew. And we’ve been on this murderous road for over an hour.
His nerves were shot, his body on the brink of exhaustion, adrenaline the only thing keeping him moving. Drew noticed that Griffyn was looking up. He followed the Hawk’s gaze. The black wall of rock rose at a skewed angle overhead, meeting the opposing cliff high above, boulders the size of houses buttressed and braced against one another. It looked like a monstrous cathedral ceiling, hewn crudely from the mountains. With such an awe-inspiring, religious feel to the place, it was no wonder the Hawklords had chosen Tor Raptor as the site of their oldest tombs.
As he watched, a few blocks of ice came away from the natural ceiling, falling from where they’d been packed in place. They were closely followed by a large slab. Drew leaned back against the cliff wall as the frozen debris rushed by. The sound of them crashing on to the ravine bottom bounced back up towards them from hundreds of feet below. Drew held his breath as the reverberations disturbed the ice overhead, cracking noises from the strained ceiling audible over the wind, but was relieved to see nothing else break free.
The Hawklord beckoned him frantically now, urging him to follow swiftly. Drew’s booted feet scrambled along the smooth path, the rock pitched off at an angle ensuring that one false step would send the Wolflord slipping to his doom.
Then a sudden, terrible shriek echoed overhead, as if the mountain itself cried out in agony. After a couple of awful, ponderous heartbeats, the scream was joined by the sound of the monstrous ceiling cracking. The noise shook Drew’s body as he pressed himself once more against the cliff, the rock at his back trembling and shuddering as stone, ice and snow high above them buckled and began to fall. He looked up in horror as the crashing cascade of black and white death hurtled towards him. Drew glanced back along the ledge as Taboo was suddenly engulfed by the icy downpour, disappearing from view in the blink of an eye. Rocks and snow rained down around him. A fist-sized block of ice hit his shoulder, narrowly missing his skull but still sending him staggering to his knees, while a great lance of granite fell like a guillotine, shearing his pony in two and dragging it over the edge. Boulders hit the path, smashing and tearing the narrow trail away all around him. Drew’s scream was cut short as the deafening roar of the avalanche choked the breath from his battered body.
4
The Scene of the Crime
As the Myrmidon eased into Highcliff, six of Tuskun’s finest Ugri warriors stood to attention on the icy foredeck. Before them, Hector took in the city, the night casting a brooding menace over the all-too-quiet port. This city had been his home for a time, a metropolis that brimmed with life from all over Lyssia. Before the curfew of the Wolf’s Council, Highcliff had been a city that rarely slept. Now, with the Lord Protector and his friends gone, as well as the majority of the city’s inhabitants, Highcliff was a ghost town. Hector placed his black-gloved hands on the frosted rail, manacles jangling between them, as he surveyed the results of the Lion’s vengeance.
The pier that the Myrmidon pulled alongside had once sported tall lanterns that lit the way for sailors and fishermen alike. Now it was dotted with gibbets that contained the dead and dying. Hector stared at the rusting cages, crows and gulls squawking as they bickered over the morsels within. The unmistakable Greycloaks of the Wolfguard hung around the throats of corpses and captives alike. The moans of the unfortunate souls could be heard by the crew of the warship, but the Tuskuns ignored them. The Ugri were the toughest, most fearsome men the frozen north had spawned, each over six foot tall and seemingly as broad. During the journey, Hector couldn’t so much as scratch his nose without one of them glowering or growling. They stood to one side as the heavy barefoot steps of their queen approached.
‘Is it as you remember, Piglord?’ laughed Slotha, the Walrus of Tuskun. While many of Lyssia’s Werelords chose to keep their human appearance on most occasions, saving their shapeshifting for when the time arose, Slotha held no such discipline. Her hold over the Ugri warriors was the result of her many victories in battle combined with her intimidating presence. Easily the tallest woman Hector had ever met, and as broad as any barbarian who worked in her service, she revelled in her frightening therian image. While not completely transformed, there were enough elements of the Werewalrus on show to strike fear into the hearts of most men. Her large hands were still webbed, her fingernails sharp claws, and her wide feet slapped the deck with each step. Her muscular arms held the dark, mottled texture of the beast, while her head kept the key features of the walrus; dark whiskers sprouted from around her lips, while a suggestion of her tusks remained in evidence, sliding down around her jaw.
‘It’s quite … changed,’ managed Hector, refusing to look at the monstrous woman. He’d endured days at sea in her company, and every additional moment in her presence made him fearful she’d back down on their agreement. He’d seen at first hand how vicious she could be with her prisoners. Here was a therian who enjoyed the kill.
‘Changed how?’
Hector looked back at the swinging bodies in their cages. ‘They’ve done away with the sea lanterns, I notice,’ he said calmly.
Slotha snorted at Hector’s dark humour.
The Myrmidon secured, the crew extended their gangway across to the stone pier. Two dozen torch-carrying Lionguard awaited them, alongside half as many Bastian warriors. More cavalry gathered on the docks, along with an empty carriage awaiting the visitors. The Ugri grunted, unimpressed by the southerners’ show of strength.
‘Take him ashore,’ grunted Slotha, shifting her great mass to one side. ‘We’ve an audience with Prince Lucas.’
As the procession climbed through the steep city towards Highcliff Keep, Hector’s mind cast back to the frantic escape he’d endured, chased through the streets by Omiri warriors. That seemed like another life now, the youth who’d fled bearing little resemblance to the man who returned.
Looking out of the carriage he noticed the city was far from deserted. Lights were on in many homes and taverns, showing that Highcliff was still inhabited, but the streets were devoid of life, the curfew he’d helped set in place still standing. A veil of fear had settled over the city.
An Ugri warrior sat on either side of him, while opposite the huge frame of Slotha filled the entire padded bench.
‘What’s the matter, Piglord? Disappointed with what they’ve done to your city?’ asked the Walrus.
‘This isn’t my city, Your Majesty. My home is far to the east of here – Redmire, capital of the Dalelands. But I’d be lying if I said Highcliff meant nothing to me. This is the city where I learned who my friends were.’
His voice was clipped, the words catching in his throat.
Slotha smiled. ‘You’ve got a world full of regrets, boy.’
‘Only one,’ answered Hector, looking at his manacled hands. ‘I never truly said goodbye to him.’
Since Friggia, Hector had tried not to think about Drew, but it was impossible. The Stags, Shark and Bear might have betrayed him, but Drew had been long gone by then. He’d heard the rumours about Drew falling to his death in Cape Gala. The Wolf had been the only true friend he’d eve
r known. But his hatred for the things done in the Wolf’s name, in his absence, remained undiminished. Each of the other Werelords had betrayed him over time and each had paid the price. First the selfish Earl Mikkel had fallen, the Doglords of Omir having slain the Staglord as he’d fled to his home in the Barebones. Then Duke Bergan, the Lord Protector who had humiliated him, stripping him of power within the Wolf’s Council, had been slain in Highcliff. Count Vega had held Hector to ransom, dangling the grisly truth of Vincent’s death over his head like a guillotine. The Sharklord’s reputation had been built upon dishonesty – Hector had done the right thing, getting rid of the count before the Shark could bite.
The last of the quartet had disappointed him most of all, Duke Manfred having left him for dead in Friggia. With dear Drew no doubt dead and those he’d once considered friends having turned on him, what choice did Hector have but to switch his allegiance to the Catlords? They wouldn’t fear the power he commanded. They would embrace his magistry. And Manfred? He would pay for his betrayal.
That’s it, dear brother, whispered the Vincent-vile. A reckoning comes …
‘Sounds like the Piglord was in love,’ teased the Walrus.
Hector directed the conversation back at her. ‘I know very little about love, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘A lifetime with my head buried in books has allowed me few opportunities to enjoy the company of the fairer sex.’
‘A bookworm, like your father was, then?’
‘You knew him?’
‘Lord Huth visited Tuskun when I was in my youth. For a while my father petitioned his to arrange marriage.’
Hector coughed suddenly, shocked at the news that his father might have once been wed to such a fearsome warrior queen as Slotha. Never could a match be more misplaced. The Werewalrus glowered at her captive Boarlord.
‘And what stopped the marriage from taking place?’
‘Your father’s constitution, apparently,’ she said, strangely wistful for the briefest moment at what might have been. ‘The cold northern air played havoc with his breathing.’
‘That sounds about right,’ said Hector, slowly regaining his composure.
Slotha sneered at him. ‘Weakling Boars: it was the best thing that could have happened. Any child of that union would have polluted the bloodlines of the Walruses. My father did right by me. He spared me the embarrassment of a marriage with your kind, and saved me for something greater.’
‘You mean to impress Prince Lucas?’
‘He’s a Prince,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m the queen in the North. Who knows what … alliance we can agree upon. This is my first visit to Highcliff. I intend to make it memorable.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be memorable,’ said Hector, dabbing at his lips as he reclined in his seat. ‘The Court of Highcliff won’t forget you in a hurry.’
5
The Screaming Peak
The trident dagger remained buried within the ice, the battered old blade the only thing stopping Drew from sliding off the slope into thin air. The muscles in his left arm strained, his elbow locked as he struggled to remain motionless. The toes of his torn boots were braced against the ice, as if they might somehow stop his body from falling should the trident dagger snap. The blade was bowing, the metal bending back on itself as it threatened to break. Drew looked up, grimacing, as the old Hawklord skidded down the incline towards him, somehow keeping his balance.
The avalanche on the Falling Road had been no accident. A loud shriek had set the rock- and ice-fall in motion, timed to perfection. While Drew and Griffyn had avoided the deadly downpour, what fate had befallen their companions wasn’t known. The path behind them had been cut off, choked in a cloud of dusty ice and broken stone. Drew’s stomach lurched when he thought about Krieg, Taboo and the Behemoth. The trio had followed him to Lyssia to fight by his side: that the mountain might have killed them broke his heart. The two survivors had continued on alone, minus their ponies and provisions, which had been carried away by the barrage of boulders. Drew and Griffyn were left to pray that their friends had survived and could find their way back to the lower path to Windfell.
‘Your hand!’ called Griffyn, reaching his out, palm open.
Drew threw his body forward, the hands of the two Werelords clamping over one another’s wrists. The baron deftly hauled Drew back up the slope and on to the sliver of a path they’d been following. The young Wolflord collapsed against the cliff, body trembling as he struggled to regain his composure, while the Hawklord seemed perversely relaxed.
‘I can’t go on!’ Drew cried, gasping for breath, the air so thin his lungs ached.
Griffyn looked down, thin hair whipping across his face as he smiled. ‘It appears youth counts for nothing: experience everything. Remember, these are my mountains, Drew. Come, we mustn’t delay. We approach the summit, my friend. We must try and reach the Screaming Peak before nightfall and find shelter by the tomb. The last place one wants to be stranded at night is on Tor Raptor’s back!’
Drew rubbed the strained muscles of his arms. ‘Any sign of our enemy?’
‘None,’ said Griffyn.
‘Perhaps we’ve lost them. You did say this path’s location was guarded by the Hawklords, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but that’s not to say our enemy hasn’t found another route to the summit.’
‘Are you sure the Hawklords will hear your call?’
Griffyn stroked his grizzled jaw, glancing at the sky around them. Below, the clouds rolled like a smoky sea, the jagged peaks of Tor Raptor’s sisters visible like islands through the fading light.
‘They’ll hear it, Drew, no matter where they are. How many still live, however, is another question entirely.’
Griffyn helped Drew to his feet, the young Wolf craning his neck to look towards the summit. Drew shook his head, trying not to linger on the dizzying sight.
‘If I don’t die of a broken neck the vertigo might give me a heart attack,’ he murmured. ‘How in Lyssia did you get your dead to the summit?’
‘How do you think?’ grinned the Hawklord grimly. ‘We flew them.’
Their hopes of beating the sunset had long gone, the dark settling over the Barebones as the two therians struggled on. Drew caught sight of Griffyn disappearing over a ledge above. There were hand and footholds aplenty here, but they were hidden by the ice and the night. Drew waited a moment for the old man to reappear, to offer a hand to help him climb up, but Griffyn didn’t appear.
Cursing, Drew hacked at the ice, forcing the trident dagger in once again, crying in pain as the cold metal rubbed against the stump of his wrist. He thought he’d got used to the feel of the basket handle against the sheared bones, but the freezing weather that crowned Tor Raptor caused a new, unknown discomfort. He reached up with his right hand, black and blue fingertips desperately trying to catch the ledge.
He could feel his will slipping, along with his grip on the mountainside. His eyes drifted down into the empty sky. Death would be swift if he fell. There were worse ways to die.
I can’t stop now, I have to fight on. For my friends and my people! For Taboo and Krieg and the Behemoth!
Drew brought his head up and stared at the moon.
Her light might have been cold but the warmth he felt inside was unmistakable, and he let it flood through him. Not for the first time on the mountain, Drew let the Wolf in, just enough to feel his fingers tearing into claws, a lupine hand taking a firm grip on the overhang. With a growl he hauled himself high, ripping the dagger free as he kicked back against the rocks below.
His torso landed on the ledge, the rock digging deep into the fur that covered his stomach. Drew grunted as he scrambled and snatched at the darkness ahead, legs kicking out into space, threatening to send him toppling back into nothingness. The bent and battered trident dagger bounced off the ledge ahead, causing the sheet ice to shatter in great shards. Gradually, he inched forward, his right le
g finally finding its way above the overhang, his knee finding purchase as he rolled his exhausted body on to the ledge.
‘You took your time, Wolf.’
Drew turned his head, looking towards the voice as the wind tugged at his legs where they dangled across the overhang. The ledge opened on to a rocky platform perhaps twenty feet across, receding towards a sheer wall of rock that rose the remaining fifty feet to Tor Raptor’s peak. A jagged, triangular crack was visible at the wall’s base, rising ten feet up to a point, a dark doorway that disappeared into the mountain. A figure stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight, Baron Griffyn held before him, head pulled back and a familiar short, silver knife pressed to his throat.
‘We’ve been here before, Rook,’ said Drew to the Crowlord, rolling over on to his stomach, inching away from the overhang. ‘Only last time it was a woman you threatened as opposed to an old man. Let the Hawk go. Face me like a therian.’
‘Hawk? This cripple? If he was a Hawk he’d have wings! Let’s see how he flies, eh?’ To emphasize the point, Rook skirted Drew and marched towards the edge, instantly causing the young Wolflord to raise his hand.
‘No, wait!’
‘What do you want?’ gasped Griffyn, his feet struggling in vain to halt the Werecrow’s progress towards the drop.
Drew looked about frantically, his hand catching hold of a long dagger of broken ice.
‘Riven, Stormdale, Windfell: everything! I want the Barebones, Griffyn!’ shouted Rook, propelling the old man forward.
The dagger of ice hit Rook square in the face, Drew’s aim was faultless. The Crow cawed furiously, instantly releasing Griffyn, who hit the ice and slid towards the edge. Rook collapsed, screaming obscenities as his hands went to his shattered face. Drew dived for the Hawklord’s arms, catching Griffyn’s hand as he disappeared from the ledge. The old man hung there for a moment, the weight of his body drawing the young Wolflord ever closer to the edge. Behind, Drew heard the screams of the Crowlord as Rook began to change.
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 26
