Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘You’ve worked for the prince before, young magister, and it didn’t end … well,’ said the Lord Chancellor. ‘Even if his Highness were to allow you to live, a notion that I struggle with, what guarantee do we have that you wouldn’t bite your master’s hand again?’

  Lucas nodded. ‘I’ve heard enough,’ he said, turning to the Wererat. ‘Get him to sign over the Dalelands, and a confession while he’s at it. Cut him up into tiny pieces if he resists, Vanmorten.’

  The Ratlord bowed low as Hector felt the hands of the Ugri warriors on his shoulders.

  ‘You’re making a mistake!’ cried Hector, struggling to break free from the men as Slotha stepped in front of him.

  ‘You’re the same, dreadful wretch who snivelled around in my shadow, Piggy!’ shouted Lucas, waving his hand dismissively. ‘You haven’t changed one bit!’

  ‘I enjoyed our time together, Boarlord,’ said Slotha, smiling, unable to resist one last slap. Her clawed fingernails raked across Hector’s face, leaving bright red ribbons of torn flesh in their wake. The magister broke free of the Ugri’s grasp, raising both his hands, gloved fingers splayed wide, the manacles taut. The prince jumped back in his throne suddenly, the old Lucas coming to the fore as he growled defensively. But if he feared Hector might attack him, he was mistaken. The Boarlord had another target.

  The Vincent-vile flew from his grasp, fast as an arrow, whipping around the enormous throat of Lady Slotha. Her huge jaw hung open as the spirit coiled around her thick neck, slipping between the folds of her chin like an invisible garrotte. She stumbled towards the throne, staggering up the dais steps, hands grasping at Lucas. The prince leaped up to stand on the stone chair and lashed out, striking her hands away. He roared to try and warn her off, but she was wild beyond reasoning.

  The Ugri warriors realized what was happening, the magister’s hands moving as they manipulated the space before him, black leather fingers throttling thin air. They leaped, but not quickly enough; Opal was before them in a flash, her face shifting into that of the Werepanther, clawed hands ready to rip into them if they moved an inch closer. The Ugri stepped back, neutered and helpless as their mistress fell to her knees.

  Her tongue lolled from her mouth now, purple and snakelike, as her bulging eyes rolled in her head. The tusks of the Walrus jutted down, ivory sabres that sawed vainly at the air. Hector yanked his hands back, as if pulling a rug from beneath a giant’s feet, hauling the vile back with all his might. The neck of the Werewalrus made an awful, wet cracking sound as her huge head collapsed into her shoulders. With a wheezing death rattle, the queen of Tuskun fell to the flagged floor with a loud thud.

  Brilliant, dear brother, panted Vincent, fresh from the kill.

  Hector’s heart shook like a rattle within his chest, his skin covered in sweat as he looked at the Lion, the Rat and the Panther.

  ‘You’re wrong, Lucas,’ he said, sounding calmer than he felt. ‘I’ve changed more than you could ever know.’

  ‘Whatever … whatever he just did,’ stammered Lucas. ‘He could do that again. Kill him. Kill him now, before he uses his dark magick upon me!’

  Opal raised her hand to the prince, demanding silence.

  She’s the one you need to talk to, brother. She’s the one who makes the decisions around here.

  ‘I’ve seen dark magistry before,’ said Opal. ‘In Cape Gala. Your old mentor, Vankaskan, he knew a thing or two. But that trick you just played. That wasn’t one of his, was it?’

  ‘I heard he died,’ said Hector, avoiding answering the question.

  ‘He was slain by your friend, the Wolf,’ snarled Vanmorten, stepping forward and towering over the Boarlord. If he feared Hector’s power, he didn’t show it.

  ‘I would pay my respects to him,’ said Hector. ‘He set me on my path.’

  ‘Then let me escort you up Grimm’s Lane to Vermire, Pig. Visit his skull in my father’s tomb and see how my brothers greet you!’

  ‘Quiet, Vanmorten,’ said Opal calmly. She looked at Hector, her big yellow eyes unblinking. And she smiled.

  ‘You risk much allowing yourself to be brought to Highcliff by the Walrus, offering yourself to us. What you bring – this great power of magistry – would make our enemies quake. What do you want in return, Hector?’

  All eyes were on the Boarlord.

  Take the leap, brother. Leave the Wolf. Embrace your own destiny.

  ‘I want a pardon,’ said Hector, ‘a guarantee that no harm will befall me at the hands of your forces. I need unhindered access throughout the realms, no restrictions on my movements. There’s much I need to research if my magistry is to be a true weapon at your disposal. The Wolf’s Council saw it as an aberration. They were feeble-minded fools.’

  Good Hector, keep going.

  ‘And I’ll need a position within the royal court; Lord Magister to the king would be nice.’

  ‘Never,’ spat Lucas, while Opal raised her hand to silence him again.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Duke Manfred’s the only remaining member of the Wolf’s Council, discounting myself. He wronged me, and I’d have his life too. He’s taken your mother to Icegarden, Your Highness. I want to be there when we capture him, to play my part in bringing the Stag down. Then, finally, your enemies will all have been defeated.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ said the prince. ‘The Wolf. What of him?’

  Hector’s bloody lips felt suddenly dry as he cleared his throat. ‘They say he fell to his death. But if he yet lives, I’ll help you bring him down.’

  You really mean that, brother? If it came to it, you’d kill Drew?

  Opal looked to Vanmorten and the prince. While Lucas sneered, Vanmorten allowed the briefest of nods. Opal turned back to Hector.

  ‘We appear to have an agreement, Boarlord,’ she said, her yellow eyes finally narrowing as she grinned. The Catlady leaped over the corpse of the Walrus and extended her hand to Hector. He reached a gloved palm out and shook it.

  Vanmorten watched, his face hidden within his cowl. Hector couldn’t tell whether the look he gave them was one of approval or disgust.

  ‘So, Icegarden,’ said Lucas. ‘That’s where they’ve taken my mother. We’ll wipe those Sturmish scum off the map for harbouring traitors.’

  Lucas stood, uneasy on his feet as if drunk. Hector watched the young Lion warily; he’d never seen him like this. He could see him by torchlight, unkempt and dishevelled. The old Lucas would never have allowed himself to be seen in such a state. The look in his eyes was wild.

  ‘I wouldn’t have just four of these realms bowing down before me. We must assemble our armies, Opal: the Lions, the Cats, the Rats and the Dogs. I’ll have all of the Seven Realms kneeling before me, with my foot on their backs and my sword at their throats if that’s what it takes!’

  ‘And we’ll have the Boars to assist us too,’ sniggered Vanmorten.

  ‘You shall,’ said Hector, turning to the Ratlord and smiling. ‘But first, I’ll take you up on your offer, Lord Chancellor. Please, take me to Vermire.’

  7

  Return to the Pack

  The Barebones loomed large over the eastern horizon, their snow-capped peaks faintly visible by the starlight. Trent Ferran found himself staring at the distant mountain range, as the wind raced through the Longridings around him. His Redcloak flapped, clapping at the air, as he gripped it tightly about his throat. He shivered as he glanced at the peaks one last time, the hairs prickling on his arms, before turning and pacing through the camp towards the prison tent.

  One guard stood to attention in front of the weighted down door-flaps. Trent quickened his pace into a brisk, officious stride as he approached. He made to walk past the guard.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said the man, older than the young outrider and clearly resenting having to call him his superior. He remained barring Trent’s path.

  ‘Stand aside, Eaves,
’ said Trent, staring the man down.

  ‘Can’t do that, sergeant,’ said the man, revealing a hint of a smug smile. Very few of Captain Sorin’s friends in the camp respected the young sergeant, Trent having received the promotion at Lord Frost’s insistence. The albino Catlord had his favourites, none more blessed than the youth from the Cold Coast.

  ‘Why’s that, Eaves?’

  ‘Captain’s orders.’

  ‘Forget Sorin. I’m here on the command of Lord Frost, to question the prisoner. You want to take that up with his lordship?’

  Trent eyeballed the man. He might have been twenty years his junior, but he was the same height, and equally as broad; the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree with Mack Ferran’s son. Reluctantly, Eaves stood aside. Trent stepped past, glowering as he went, allowing the tent flap to swing shut behind him. The young soldier paused for a moment to tie the door cords, fastening it tight so it couldn’t be opened in a hurry. Satisfied it was secured, he walked quietly into the heart of the dark tent, to the beaten figure kneeling in a slumped heap.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Trent as he stood over Baron Ewan.

  The Ramlord looked up. ‘You came back?’ he whispered through broken lips.

  ‘You don’t believe Drew killed my mother. Then who did?’

  ‘The Wererat Vanmorten killed your mother, lad.’

  Ewan’s voice was serious and hard.

  ‘How can you know that, though?’

  ‘Drew’s word would have been enough for me. I wouldn’t doubt anything that lad told me. But you forget: I spent time in Cape Gala, while the Wererat Vankaskan lorded it around High Stable. That one couldn’t hold a secret if his life depended upon it; his brother’s murder of your mother was something they were proud of. I heard him gloat as much with my own ears.’

  Trent’s skin felt suddenly cold all over, a clamminess that spread from his extremities up towards his chest and throat. He felt a chill seize his heart, fearing the broken Ramlord spoke the truth.

  He has to be lying!

  ‘You’ll say anything if it spares Sorin’s beatings,’ said Trent, struggling to hold back the tears. But his voice was trembling, the young outrider was assailed by doubt.

  ‘What more can possibly be done to me?’ laughed the Ramlord quietly. ‘My body and heart are weak after your captain’s work. I am already at Death’s dark door. The long sleep would be a blessed relief after what your friends have done to me.’

  ‘This can’t be true,’ sobbed Trent, unable to hold back his emotions any longer.

  ‘Not a day has passed since your mother was murdered when Drew hasn’t thought about the horror done to his family. And that his own father – and brother – should think he’d killed her? Can you imagine the torment?’

  Tears rolled down Trent’s cheeks, a steady stream that couldn’t be stopped. He hunched double, retching, a dry heave causing his back to shudder. He dropped to his knees, choking, wanting to shout, but instead silently screaming. What have I done?

  ‘I’ve hunted him,’ he whispered. ‘Hunted him for … for those who killed my family! What have I done? I’m damned …’

  ‘All is not in vain,’ urged Ewan. ‘You can still help him. Lady Gretchen and Lady Whitley: your masters believe they’ve fled to the south, to Calico or Port Stallion.’

  ‘They haven’t?’

  ‘No! They’ve gone north, to Brackenholme! Go after them, help them, boy: they’re in grave danger!’

  A slow handclap caused both of them to look up. The lithe figure of Lord Frost prowled into the room, the severed cords that had bound the door shut fluttering behind him. Trent looked back at Ewan, the look on his face as surprised as the Ramlord’s. Ewan smiled sadly at the young man, Trent’s eyes wide with horror as the full ramifications of Frost’s presence dawned on him. He’d heard everything. The Catlord wore a pair of leather breeches and nothing else, his pale feet padding silently across the earth floor. Sorin followed at his shoulder, the broken-nosed captain grinning broadly.

  ‘Excellent work, Trent,’ said the albino. ‘Excellent!’

  He placed his white hand on Trent’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. Trent felt the Catlord’s claws through the material of his cloak, digging into his flesh.

  ‘You’ve outdone yourself, my friend. I didn’t hear it all, but you unearthed the gem at the end: Brackenholme.’

  Trent wearily rose to his feet, red-ringed eyes still wet with tears. Ewan looked up, his broken face trembling but forgiving. Sorin paced across and launched a vicious kick at the old therian, his booted heel hitting him square in the breast. Ewan collapsed, slumped against his ropes.

  ‘Kill him,’ said Frost, clapping Trent’s back.

  The young man’s hand hovered over the pommel of the Wolfshead in his scabbard. All this time, helping my enemy, hunting my brother, betraying my family …

  The Wolfshead blade slid out of its sheath, rising up in the air over the Ramlord in a smooth motion. It hovered there, the executioner’s steel poised to fall. Every ounce of Trent’s rage was unleashed as he let the sword fly in a furious swing, not down towards the Ramlord, but around him in a fluid arc.

  Frost stood motionless, his pink eyes widening in wonder as he stared at the young outrider, poised to strike again. The Catlord’s eyes settled on the Redcloak’s sword, the edge of the blade dark with blood. He glanced down to his stomach, disbelief spreading across his face as a widening red line appeared across the toned flesh. The albino changed quickly, calling upon his felinthrope healing to try and halt the wound’s progress, but it was hopeless; the Wolfshead blade was blessed with silver, at the Catlord’s own command.

  As Frost fell to his knees, mid-change, Sorin leaped past him, his own sword meeting Trent’s as the young sergeant defended himself.

  ‘You traitorous scum!’ shouted Sorin, raining blows down on Trent as the younger man parried. ‘You’re as bad as the other Ferrans! A Wolf, just like your brother and father!’

  Trent had heard enough insults. He could take the barrage of sword-blows, but he wouldn’t listen to Sorin besmirch the Ferran name. The next time Sorin’s sword struck Trent’s, the young man dived forward, catching him in the ribs with his shoulder. The air exploded from Sorin’s lungs as the two crashed down to earth, both swords flying, Trent on top of the captain.

  Sorin threw a wild punch upwards, but with little power, and the young man batted it away and landed a flurry of blows on Sorin’s face. The captain stopped moving, his features battered, as Trent rolled away, panting and panicked.

  The tent-flaps swung open as the guard entered, stumbling blindly into the scene. Trent wasted no time on Sorin’s man, snatching up the Wolfshead blade and leaping up from the floor in a savage lunge. The sword disappeared through Eaves’ stomach, rising up out of his back. The guard fell to the floor, dead in an instant.

  Trent scrambled across to Ewan, cutting the Ramlord’s bonds as he tumbled into his arms.

  ‘Come, my lord,’ said Trent. ‘We need to go.’

  Before Ewan could answer, another voice cut in.

  ‘They’ll find you and your kin. They’ll kill you all. My brothers and sisters won’t stop.’

  Trent looked up and saw Lord Frost yet lived, the albino Catlord kneeling, his clawed fingers failing to hold his open stomach in place. He’d part-changed, the White Panther visible throughout, but he looked paler than ever, like a ghost, the enormous puddle of blood that he knelt in steadily growing. His pink eyes fluttered as he stared at Trent, head lolling, a sickly smile across his jagged feline mouth.

  Trent rose and walked over to him, dragging the Wolfshead blade behind him.

  ‘You strike a blow against a Catlord, you strike a blow against all my kind.’

  Trent lifted the sword high before answering. ‘You strike a blow against a Ferran, you strike a blow against our whole family.’

  The sword sliced down,
the severed head of Lord Frost rolling to a halt beside the body of Eaves. Trent looked back to Ewan in time to see Sorin at his back, risen from the floor, his face a red mask, his sword raised to strike. The captain’s face was twisted, bloody skin broken by white snarling teeth and even brighter eyes. Trent began the turn, bringing the Wolfshead blade up to parry the below, but he was too slow, his poise all wrong. Sorin’s sword was descending.

  The killing blow never struck, the sword clattering from the captain’s dying grasp. A horn burst from Sorin’s chest, his ribcage splintering, as the changed Ramlord launched himself from the floor into his back. Shock, agony and horror flashed in Sorin’s eyes as he and Baron Ewan collapsed. The Lionguard captain was dead before he hit the dirt. Trent skidded along the ground to catch Ewan as he rolled away from Sorin’s corpse, wheezing with the strain of the transformation. The Ramlord was heavy, his head lolling against the youth’s chest as his strength faded fast.

  ‘We need to go,’ cried Trent.

  ‘No, boy,’ he said. ‘Go on your own.’

  ‘I can take you with me, if we leave now!’

  ‘Slow you down,’ spluttered the wheezing old Ram.

  Trent shook his head, dragging the Werelord towards the wall of the tent, but Ewan was right. Fully transformed, he was a deadweight in Trent’s arms, his limbs useless.

  ‘My time’s up,’ said Ewan. ‘The long sleep awaits me. Go. Help your brother. His friends.’

  Trent choked back the tears, nodding. Outside he could hear shouting, the commotion in the tent not having been missed by the rest of the camp.

  ‘The girls,’ whispered Ewan, his voice trailing away.

  ‘What?’ asked Trent, bending his ear closer to the Wereram’s battered face.