‘Release me, Drew, before we both fall,’ shouted Griffyn, eyes wide with fearful sincerity.
‘I won’t let you go,’ gasped Drew, tears streaming as he struggled to keep hold of the Hawklord, his body still sliding closer to oblivion.
‘Beware the dead, Drew. Open the windows; call my people to you and take what’s yours by rights. I brought it here,’ whispered Griffyn. ‘I kept it safe.’
Drew growled, calling upon whatever lycanthropic strength remained inside, but it was no use. The Werewolf’s clawed hand was gripping at the Hawklord’s tearing sleeve. Griffyn glanced past Drew’s shoulder, his face a mask of alarm as his eyes settled on the enemy at Drew’s back.
‘Brenn protect you, Drew!’ he cried as he tore his arm loose and fell into the night, swallowed by the darkness below.
Drew rolled quickly, almost following Griffyn over the edge as the ice shattered beside him, a longsword crashing into the ledge. He looked up to see clouds pass over the moon above.
With a blood-curdling screech the Werecrow threw his arms out, wings erupting from his back in an explosion of feathers. The lord of Riven had fully changed – Rook’s features had utterly gone to be replaced by the monstrous head, sharp black beak open and tongue rattling within. His arm came back down, the sword smashing into the ground where Drew had lain moments earlier. The Wolflord scrambled across the ice, making towards the rock face as the Werecrow followed. Rook was in no danger of slipping, his feet having shifted into long, dark talons that gripped the ice securely.
‘Where do you run to?’ squawked Rook, his huge chest rippling, muscles and feathers ruffling as he stalked closer. ‘Wolves don’t belong in the sky!’
Drew reached the rock wall. Every muscle burned, every ounce of energy having been spent climbing Tor Raptor. He tried to call on the Wolf, but there was little left. Tugging his longsword from its battered scabbard, he glanced at the dark doorway. A series of runes were carved around the triangular entrance.
Beware the dead, Drew …
The Werecrow leaped suddenly, closing on the Wolf with a beat of his enormous wings. Rook’s sword came down, Drew raising his own in defence, the metal ringing in his grasp with the full weight of the Crowlord behind it. With the steel shattering, the weapon flew from his grip, the blade broken in two. Drew didn’t wait, crawling quickly through the dark arch. As he passed over the threshold, the runes began to glow with a pale silver light, their ghostly illumination bouncing off the rock walls within.
Behind, Drew heard the Werecrow laugh, a wheezing screech of glee as it followed him into the tomb. He scrambled on, staggering briefly to his feet before tumbling down a flight of stone steps. Drew rolled to a halt in the centre of a great round chamber, the walls of which were inscribed with silver sigils like those that glowed outside. A large window was cut through the rock overhead, open to the night sky beyond. The runes seemed to beat with a rising rhythm, the thrum of which reverberated through Drew’s ears, causing his teeth to chatter and his bones to ache. It was like a slow, drawn-out heartbeat, as if Tor Raptor’s summit were alive, awakening with his arrival. The noise gripped his chest, as if it might crush him at any moment. Drew wearily climbed to his feet, squinting through the other-worldly light.
At first glance it looked as if a series of caves were carved within the domed walls, but then he saw the wrapped bodies set within each of the alcoves; the mummified remains of the Hawklords of old. He counted twelve such catacombs pockmarking the chamber, with chests laid at the feet and head of each mummy. He might have stared at them in wonder longer if it had not been for the dark, feathered monster that descended the steps into the room.
Rook let his wings flap once more, sending clouds of dust swirling through the air. His feet scraped against the cold, stone floor, talons grating on the smooth stone and sending shivers racing up Drew’s spine. The young Wolflord retreated, soon finding the wall at his back.
‘Done running, Wolf?’ sneered the Werecrow. ‘Griffyn will have to make do with the mountainside. You can have his bed in this dead birds’ nest.’
Rook took another step into the chamber just as moonlight began to stream in through the window above. The disturbed dust glittered in the air like tiny silver stars as the light settled on the catacomb behind Drew. The alcove glowed suddenly as the moon’s rays landed upon it, a shaft of pale blue light glowed dimly on the mummy’s chest; it held a sword in its grasp.
‘What dark magistry is this?’ squawked Rook, taking another step closer to Drew, but less steadily now, looking over his mighty winged shoulders around the room.
Drew’s instincts told him what to do. He reached behind, his fingers settling around the sword’s handle. The mummy instantly released its grip. With his hand closing around the sword, the blade glowed brighter, its pale blue light flashing bright white in Drew’s grasp.
‘There’s nothing dark about it,’ said Drew breathlessly, his eyes fixed on the shining blade in astonishment. The young Wolflord was so entranced by the weapon that he didn’t notice Rook raise his own blade.
Before the Crow could strike, a sudden, violent wind whipped through the tomb, throwing the young Wolf to the ground. He looked up, his left arm sheltering his eyes from the blinding gale. Lord Rook teetered forwards and backwards as the wind hurtled around him, buffeting him from side to side and lifting him into the air.
Drew could make out a series of dark shadows racing from each of the alcoves and joining the cyclone. The Werecrow let out a scream as the speeding winds smashed into his wings, cartilage snapping and feathers flying in a ghastly black shower. His cry increased in pitch as cuts began to appear across his body, first his arms and legs, flesh tearing and bones breaking. Next the wounds appeared across his chest and back, as shadowy talons tore into his torso. As the feathers and blood flew, the Crowlord of Riven’s screams reached a deafening roar, forcing Drew to look away.
The wind dropped suddenly, as did the body of the Crowlord. Spluttering and coughing, Drew looked back into the centre of the tomb, his eyes settling on the corpse of Rook, his head back-to-front and his body slashed to ribbons. Feathers floated through the blood-misted air as the moon continued to shine into the chamber. Drew felt his heart constricting once more as the shadows that had joined the deadly whirlwind began to take a more solid form.
Twelve dark figures appeared, their form shifting all the time as they closed in around him. Drew’s mouth was dry, and when he tried to breathe he felt the pressure growing in his chest. Skeletal black hands emerged from the wraiths, reaching out towards him, their taloned fingers grasping. He brought the white sword round, holding it in his trembling grasp, a hopeless attempt at warding the demons away.
As one, the phantoms retreated, and the air returned to Drew’s lungs in a surging life-giving wave. His chest heaved as he watched the dozen shapes suddenly switch, from grim black wraiths into ethereal white angels. Dazzled by the stunning light, Drew looked on as the dozen figures seemed to shrink in height. The Wolf righted himself, standing gingerly as he looked over the glowing shapes. Are they kneeling? Bowing?
Beyond the sentinels, Drew could see twelve runes carved into the tomb wall shining as bright as the sword in his hand, forming a perfect circle. He limped over, between the ghosts, taking care to avoid touching them. The runes encircled a round stone set in the rock, similar to a small millstone, with a dimple carved into the middle. Hooking the sword beneath his left arm, he tried to prise the stone’s edge, but there was nothing to take hold of. Returning the sword to his hand, he smashed the twisted end off the end of the trident dagger, sending it to the floor with a clatter. He then placed the metal-capped stump into the hollow and pushed. The stone grated, sliding back against the rock around it. With a sudden clang the stone fell away, revealing a tunnel that began to rip the air from the room.
Drew dropped to the floor, his tattered cloak flapping and shearing free from his shoulders, sucked away
through the hole and out into the dark space beyond the mountain. One after another the white ghosts were drawn through the hole, screeching and screaming as they went, the sound deafening, their light blinding, as Drew gripped the cold stone wall for fear of being torn through the tunnel after them.
6
A Gift from the North
Hector couldn’t believe the change that had taken place in the prince. Having spent a torturous time in Lucas’s service under the tutelage of the wicked Vankaskan, he’d seen the young Lionlord go from strength to strength physically, changing from a boy to a man well before his years. An expert warrior with blade in hand, with total mastery of his felinthropy, he was the image of his dead father, King Leopold, a worthy successor to the Lion King’s crown. But the figure that sat on the throne before him was a shadow of that bold, impetuous youth, a ghost of the Werelord he’d once known and feared. Where was the old Lucas?
He’s in there, brother. Just you wait and see …
Prince Lucas had remained silent when the Tuskun party arrived. He’d stayed silent while Queen Slotha had announced, with much bluster, that she’d brought a gift from the north to the Lion of Westland. The Lord Chancellor, Vanmorten, had gone through the formalities with the Werewalrus, willing her to hurry to the end of her grand speech, his eyes fixed on the young Boarlord who stood manacled between her guards. The Ugri warriors propelled the magister forward, sending Hector to his knees.
‘Kill him.’
Lucas’s voice was clear and calm. This was new to Hector – the prince he’d served had been prone to great emotional rants and tantrums. Vanmorten turned slowly and stared at the throne. His face was hidden within his cowl, the scars from his battles with Drew having left him hideously disfigured twice over.
Lucas was sitting upright in the stone chair, spine stiff against its back. The rear of the hall was shrouded in darkness, the torches unlit in their sconces around the throne. Lucas’s hands rested on the carved snakes on the chair’s arms as he stared at Hector. Leopold’s iron crown sat firmly upon his head, his son’s blond hair lank and lifeless beneath it.
‘I don’t think so,’ replied a voice from behind the throne. ‘Let’s hear what the Boarlord says before rushing to any judgement, Lucas.’
The woman who stepped into the light was the polar opposite to the queen of Tuskun. Whereas Slotha was a towering figure who cast a huge, intimidating shadow, the other was slight and slender. Hector had seen nobody like her in all of Lyssia, her skin so black it seemed to glow with a dull, purple light, while her eyes shone yellow like the sun. She came to a halt before him, looking down at the kneeling magister. Her head was shaved smooth, every bump of her skull visible in the torchlight. While others in the chamber avoided eye contact with her, Hector was unable to draw his eyes away. He’d heard the tales about her, and she was even more fascinating in the flesh: Opal, the Catlady of Bast. She arched her eyebrow in surprise as the Boarlord fixed his gaze upon her.
‘I would have his head on a spike, to go with those of other traitors,’ spat the young Lion, his lips peeling back to show a full set of sharp, white teeth. ‘What can he possibly say that will spare my wrath?’
‘It might be wise to listen to his final words, Your Highness,’ said Vanmorten, trying to reason with the impatient prince. ‘Think of it as an amusement!’
‘If the prince wants him dead, so be it,’ declared Slotha, clapping her huge hands. An Ugri stepped forward, unhitching an axe from his belt. The audience gasped as he raised it over Hector’s head.
‘Put that away!’ shouted Vanmorten.
‘He’s my prisoner,’ growled Slotha, bearing her tusks in a jutting snarl.
‘He was your prisoner,’ corrected Vanmorten. ‘Up until the point you presented him as a gift to Prince Lucas.’
The Ugri warrior glanced at his queen who, with a nod of the head, commanded he step down. She glared at the Wererat as the Lord Chancellor turned back to the prince. Opal watched, smiling, enjoying the tension in the great hall.
‘Hear what he says, Your Highness, then do what you will,’ said the Ratlord.
Lucas nodded. He looked tired to Hector, his former vigour and energy having all but disappeared, to be replaced by pale flesh and red-ringed eyes. Something wasn’t right.
‘Go ahead, Piggy. Speak your mind for the last time.’
Hector struggled to his feet, the manacled hands making the task awkward. He pulled his eyes from Opal, focusing on the prince.
‘Your Highness,’ he said, which caused Lucas to chuckle.
‘You dare call me that after your betrayal …’
Vanmorten and Opal looked at the prince, their glares encouraging him to quieten. Miraculously, this seemed to work.
The prince pays heed to his advisers’ words, brother, whispered Vincent. Let’s hope his advisers in turn are open to suggestion …
Hector cleared his throat, the interruption having thrown him. His guts were knotted, twisted around themselves with anxiety. He’d placed his throat in the Lion’s jaws on an all-or-nothing roll of the bones.
‘As Baron of Redmire and Lord of the Dalelands, I offer the Emerald Realm to you, Prince Lucas, as well as my services as magister and councillor.’
The room was quiet as the members of Lucas’s court looked at one another in astonishment.
Finally, Vanmorten spoke. ‘Is this some kind of trick, Boarlord?’
‘It’s no trick. I’m giving you the Dalelands, Prince Lucas: hilt, blade and scabbard. You have our allegiance and my support as you secure lordship over Lyssia. What does that give you: Westland, the Cluster Isles, the Longridings and now the Dalelands? That’s four of the Seven Realms: the throne is yours, Your Highness.’
‘I’ve already taken the Dalelands, Piggy,’ said Lucas, glaring at Hector with utter contempt. ‘It’s no longer yours to give.’
‘But it is, Your Highness,’ said Hector. ‘You can attack the Dales, but Brenn’s law stands above all others: the Boars of Redmire rule the Dalelands, and as Baron of Redmire I speak on behalf of all my people. The support of the Emerald Realm is mine to give, and mine alone. You have our fealty.’
‘Do I hear you correctly?’ said the Ratlord. ‘This is the same young Boar who was a founding member of the Wolf’s Council, a traitor who turned against the House of Lions and all that was lawful? Why the change of heart, boy? Why the sudden allegiance to your rightful monarch? It doesn’t have anything to do with your capture in the north and your friends being defeated, does it?’
The manacles jangled as Hector lifted his arms, right hand raised as he begged permission to speak.
‘I wasn’t captured in the north. Had I chosen to, I could have left Friggia at any point in time. I asked to be escorted to Slotha in …’
‘That’s Queen Slotha!’ shouted the Walrus, backhanding him.
Hector looked up at the massive Werelady as she hulked over him. He winced, his split lip torn and streaming as he spoke through gritted, bloodied teeth.
‘I asked to be escorted to Queen Slotha, so I could be brought here to parlay with you. I was never caught by the Tuskuns. I come here willingly. I’m worth more to you alive than dead.’
‘What possible value do you have?’ asked Vanmorten. ‘I could have you sign a declaration right now, declaring your allegiance, before removing your head from your shoulders. You’re a bumpkin, Hector – a child of the country who has wandered into a man’s city. You offer nothing. You’re out of your depth.’
Vanmorten stepped up to the magister, his face inches from Hector’s. The young therian could smell the awful cocktail of flowers and rotten flesh, the rose water applied to mask the Ratlord’s ghoulish stench. He could see inside the cowl now, one half of the Lord Chancellor’s face bare skull, the other blackened flesh. The Rat spoke again through his lipless mouth.
‘You’re drowning.’
They don’t fear you, broth
er. They don’t respect you. They mock you. I fear you may join me, Hector, all too soon …
Hector could sense the mood shifting in the chamber. They’d heard enough. They’d take his signature and then his life. Last chance to shine. He raised his voice so all could hear.
‘I’m your ally, Prince Lucas, whether you like it or not. My foes are your foes, and I’ve already slain one of them.’
Lucas leaned forward and guffawed, his weariness lifting for a moment before he collapsed into the stone chair once again. Vanmorten and Slotha also laughed, joined by a chorus of jeers from the Lionguard. Only Opal remained straight-faced.
‘Who’ve you killed?’ she asked.
‘Vega. I killed him aboard the Maelstrom. The count is dead.’
‘Lies!’ shouted Vanmorten.
‘Kill him!’ laughed Slotha. ‘I’ll do it myself,’ she added, snatching the axe from her Ugri bodyguard.
‘Stay your hand, woman,’ growled the Werepanther.
The Ugri and their queen stared at the woman in shock, but her command was followed. Slotha reluctantly released her hand from the axe haft, glowering at the Catlady.
‘How in Brenn’s name do you expect us to believe you killed Vega?’ asked the prince.
‘As much as I hate to admit it, Vega’s the most cunning captain on the White Sea,’ said Slotha. ‘There’s no way this wetling fool could’ve killed him, my dear prince.’
Oh she is keen, isn’t she? hissed Vincent. Perhaps there’ll be a royal marriage after all, although Slotha’s quite a step down from Gretchen.
‘Unlikely,’ said Hector, accidentally aloud.
‘What’s unlikely?’ said Vanmorten.
‘My killing Vega,’ replied Hector, covering his tracks. ‘Unlikely, but not impossible: I buried a silver arrow within him, and then I had my men toss him overboard. That arrow is still in my possession, stained dark with the Sharklord’s blood. That is, if Slotha hasn’t taken it from my belongings. The Wolf’s Council is dead to me. My future lies in your service, Your Highness.’
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 27
