‘In danger. Gretchen, Whitley … Brackenholme.’
A rattling wheeze escaped Ewan’s chest as his voice trailed away. His eyes stared at the tent ceiling, the light fading from them.
‘They travel … with … Baba Korga …’
Then he was gone, his broken chest no longer moving, the fight over.
Trent didn’t wait. More shouting from the camp told him he’d overstayed his welcome. He rushed over to the wall of the tent, slashing through it with a swing of the Wolfshead blade. Trent slipped out of the tent, pacing swiftly through the camp, striding between his fellow soldiers as he headed to where the horses were tethered. Bastian and Lionguard alike walked past him in the opposite direction as the cry went up from the prison tent. He was sure they were looking at him, could feel their questioning gaze as he strode by, but none stopped him.
By the time Trent found his horse, Storm, the rest of the camp had descended upon the prison tent. By the time the Bastians and Lionguard began looking for the culprit, the outrider was already on his way, galloping across the Longridings, towards the Dyrewood.
Towards Brackenholme.
8
The Heirs and the Honest
Taloned fingers squeezed Drew’s windpipe, rousing him from his fevered slumber, threatening to tear his throat out in a flash. His eyes were instantly open, feet scrambling against the freezing stone floor of the Hawklords’ tomb as he struggled in vain to slip free of the deadly hold. He brought his hand up to prise his attacker’s fingers loose, but the other’s free hand shoved him away, the grip tightening suddenly and shutting off Drew’s airway. Drew went limp in surrender, eyes fixed firmly on his foe.
The therian was unmistakably a Hawklord, although dramatically different in appearance from Shah. When Griffyn’s daughter had transformed she had looked elegant, majestic, a true mistress of the sky. The falconthrope who held Drew’s life in his talons was a rougher looking character. Rusty brown wings folded behind his back. The red feathers were tattered and threadbare in places, old wounds visible beneath missing plumage. A shortbow swung from his hip as he towered over Drew, his head craning in close to better inspect the young Wolflord. One long scar ran down the left side of the Hawklord’s face, from the top of his crown, over his eye, disappearing beneath his jaw. His razor-sharp yellow beak snapped at Drew’s face, and his big, black killer’s eyes blinked suspiciously.
‘You’re well off the beaten track, boy,’ croaked the Hawk. ‘Thought you’d try and take from our kin, did ya?’
Drew’s mouth gasped at the air like a fish out of water, no words escaping. Changing into the Wolf wasn’t an option – the clawed fingers of the Hawk would puncture his neck like a knife through soft fruit. He could sense unconsciousness – and ultimately death – fast approaching. The Hawk looked across at Rook’s corpse where it lay on the floor, illuminated by a shaft of morning sunlight from the window above.
‘Thieves!’ snapped the Werehawk, shaking Drew like a rag doll. ‘The Crow promised you a fortune if you helped ’im rob our tomb, did he? Well the Crow’s dead, boy, and you’re about to join ’im …’
‘Red Rufus!’
The Hawk bobbed his head, opening his beak to hiss in the direction of the staircase that led into the Screaming Peak. Another figure descended the steps, striding over towards the rust-feathered falconthrope and his prisoner.
‘Let him breathe,’ commanded the newcomer, a blur before Drew’s cloudy vision as he was about to pass out.
Reluctantly, Red Rufus released his grip, letting Drew collapse on to the floor, snatching great lungfuls of air.
‘Let me kill ’im, Carsten,’ said Red Rufus, flexing his talons, ready to lash out. ‘Let’s see ’is gizzard, eh?’
The one called Carsten raised his hand, silencing Red Rufus. ‘Let the lad speak first, Red Rufus, hear what he’s got to say. Then you can open him up.’
As Drew’s vision recovered, Carsten shifted into focus. In his fifth decade, he was stocky and broad-shouldered, with a mop of thick black hair. His eyes were bright blue, trained keenly on Drew, while his hands remained folded over the pommel of an upright broadsword, the blade turned down to the floor. Drew rubbed his throat, massaging life back into his vocal chords.
‘Seems like the tombwraiths took care of your master, thief,’ said Carsten, stepping over Rook’s body.
‘I’m not … a thief!’ gasped Drew.
‘Lost your way did you, lad?’ said Carsten. ‘Happens all the time up here. A boy’s just wandering around through the vales and grasslands, takes a wrong turn, ends up on top of Tor Raptor. Easy mistake to make.’
‘I came here … with Baron Griffyn …’
Carsten gave Rook’s body a kick, the corpse rolling over, black feathers fluttering around it.
‘Rubbish!’ sneered Red Rufus, clenching his taloned hands, ready to strike. ‘Griffyn died years ago. You’re one of the Crow’s men.’
Red Rufus brought his hand back, fingers open, his big black eyes narrowing to slits.
‘You’re a dead man …’
‘Wait!’ shouted Carsten, causing Red Rufus to turn.
Another figure had descended the staircase. A tall, partly-changed Hawklord staggered down the steps. His wings were already retreating into his back, the beak grinding back into his jaw and skull, feathers disappearing beneath his skin. He was bald with a full black beard, a little taller than Carsten, but they had the look of family. In his arms he carried a body.
‘Is that … ?’ said Carsten, stepping closer.
‘It’s Griffyn,’ said the newcomer, his head bowed, beard bristling as he grimaced. ‘Dead: I found him below the cliffs.’
Carsten and Red Rufus looked back to Drew where he lay on the floor, his eyes darting between them all.
‘I told you I came with him!’
‘And yet you live while my lord lies dead?’ said Carsten.
‘Let me do ’im, Your Grace,’ said Red Rufus, hopping from foot to foot now, keen to be on with the business of killing.
‘Who is this?’ asked the bald, bearded Hawklord.
‘My name’s Drew. Drew Ferran.’
Red Rufus was about to strike when Carsten snatched him by the forearm, causing the red-feathered bird to squawk at his liege.
‘You’re Drew Ferran?’ he said in disbelief, ignoring Red Rufus. ‘Half of Lyssia is searching for a boy by that name.’
‘This is Wergar’s son?’ asked the bearded falconthrope.
‘Just words, Baum,’ replied Carsten. ‘I still think he’s an agent of this dead Crow, sent here thieving. He’ll say anything to live …’
‘How does he live though, brother?’ said Baum. ‘The Screaming Peak and the tombwraiths: only the Heirs and the Honest may enter? This Crow lies dead but the boy survives.’
Carsten cocked his head to one side, aspects of the hawk never far away. He crouched on his haunches in front of Drew while Red Rufus paced anxiously behind him.
‘Good question, Baum. Boy, how do you live while the Crow lies dead?’
Drew reached behind his back, his torn cloak falling to one side to reveal the sword he’d found in the tomb.
Carsten and Baum both gasped, while Red Rufus stuck his avian neck over his lord’s shoulder, his eyes running along the length of the blade. Carsten moved from his crouch, dropping on to one knee, while his brother gently placed Griffyn’s body on to the floor and did the same.
‘What is it?’ said Red Rufus, agitated by his falconthrope cousins’ show of reverence.
‘The sword,’ whispered Baum, recognizing the blade straightaway.
‘He’s Wergar’s son, all right,’ said Carsten, taking hold of Red Rufus and drawing the old bird to the ground into a bow. ‘He’s the rightful king of Westland.’
Drew staggered to his feet, looking down on the three Hawklords who knelt before him. They reminded him of the tombwraiths he�
��d encountered that night, striking the same poses that the phantoms had when they’d seen the sword.
‘I don’t … please, I don’t understand. And for Brenn’s sake, my lords, don’t kneel before me!’
The three rose, Red Rufus a little quicker than the other two, stalking to the rear of the tomb.
‘The runes beyond this crypt are a warning,’ Baum said. ‘None may enter the Screaming Peak but the Heirs and the Honest: this law the tombwraiths honour.’
Only the just and rightful lord may enter: that’s what Baron Griffyn had told Drew about the tomb.
‘How did the tombwraiths know I wasn’t a thief, come here to steal the sword? They tore Rook to pieces!’
‘That sword,’ Carsten said, pointing to the grey, metal blade, ‘was the weapon of Wergar the Wolf: Moonbrand, forged for his ancestors in Icegarden by Sturmland’s greatest smiths centuries ago. The wraiths wouldn’t have allowed you to pass if you weren’t truly Wergar’s heir. Did it glow, lad?’
‘It was already glowing, but when I picked it up it shone with a white light.’
‘The Sturmish enchanted the weapons of the Werelords,’ said Baum. ‘The steel glows like a torch under moonlight.’
‘And the rest,’ muttered Red Rufus, cryptically.
‘But what’s it doing here?’ Drew asked, trying to piece together the jigsaw.
‘It would appear our dear, departed Griffyn brought it here for safe-keeping after Leopold took the throne. Who could have known that one day Wergar’s child would climb Tor Raptor and reclaim it as his own?’
Drew thought back to Griffyn’s words once more: I brought it here: I kept it safe.
Drew had heard the sword’s name before. Queen Amelie had mentioned it in Highcliff. My father’s sword.
‘My lords,’ said Drew, sliding Moonbrand into his battered weapon belt. It was his turn to kneel now, Baum and Carsten looking to one another in surprise while Red Rufus watched distrustfully. ‘I was here with Baron Griffyn’s blessing. We came to the Screaming Peak because we needed to call you back. The war that has taken hold of Lyssia, we, the army that stands before the Catlords of Bast, are in dire need!’
‘In need of what, son of Wergar?’ asked Carsten, his blue eyes shining like ice.
‘We need the Hawklords.’
1
The Guest
The first rays of sunlight illuminated Windfell Keep as a trio of servants stood in the lord’s chamber, watching their master frantically rifle through his desk. Each held a casket, lid open, half-filled with coins, gems and artefacts. The Falconlord tugged loose a drawer, tipped its contents on to the table and sifted through them with feverish fingers.
‘It must be here somewhere,’ murmured Baron Skeer, clawing through bound scrolls and checking the seals of each.
The doors to his study were wide open, the booted sound of guards’ feet echoing through the corridor beyond.
‘What the devil’s going on?’
The question came from the doorway, Skeer glancing up to find his guest, craning his head around the corner.
‘I’m leaving,’ said Skeer briskly. ‘Ah, there you are!’
His eyes lit up as he snatched a scroll with a red wax seal: the Lionshead, King Leopold.
‘Leaving? Are you insane, Skeer?’
‘You’d leave too if you knew what was best.’
The old Falcon checked the seal, making sure it remained unopened.
‘What’s the scroll?’ said the visitor, striding into the room, looking back as another group of soldiers raced by in the corridor. They may have worn the brown, feather-trimmed cloaks of the Hawkguard, but each man was there on secondment, a soldier of the Lion. Windfell had been Leopold’s foothold in the Barebones for fifteen years, in which time the soldiers had seen little by way of combat, growing careless and out of condition. Suddenly, conflict was approaching, and the Hawkguard’s fear was palpable.
Skeer stashed the scroll in the belt of his robes.
‘A decree made by the old king.’
‘That states what?’ asked the Falcon’s guest, trailing his hands over one of the open caskets that the servants held.
‘That my position here as baron is lawful. Leopold asked me to rule here for the good of the Seven Realms.’
His guest laughed, a rasping cackle that rattled in his chest.
‘For the good of the Seven Realms? For the good of you, Skeer, and no one else!’
The guest slammed the casket lid shut, causing the Falconlord to jump. The baron scooped up a further handful of trinkets and barged past his visitor, dumping them into another box.
‘Why the concern over your position, old friend? Why the activity within the halls and corridors of Windfell? Why so fearful for your life all of a sudden, Skeer: explain what’s happening!’
Skeer stepped closer to his fellow Werelord, who was a good foot taller than the old bird. The baron stared up into the squinting off-centre eyes of the crooked count.
‘My cousins, Kesslar,’ said the Falcon. ‘The Hawklords return!’
‘What do you mean they’re returning?’ shouted Kesslar as he marched after Skeer, the baron’s servants getting under his feet as he tried to catch up. He shoved one out of the way, the young man crashing into the corridor wall and spilling half the contents of the casket on the floor.
‘Pick those up!’ squawked Skeer as his servant snatched up the jewels.
‘How can the Hawklords return?’ repeated Kesslar. ‘They’re all dead, aren’t they?’
‘Not dead,’ corrected the Falcon. ‘Banished. Forbidden from ever returning.’
‘Yet you say that’s happening? How can you know?’
Skeer’s eyes were frantic as he peered through one of the tall arches that looked out over the mountains beyond. He strode to the stone sill, ducking his head from side to side, searching the sky fearfully. Beside the towering keep of Windfell, the Steppen Falls crashed down through the Barebones, working their way to the Longridings far below. A line of bridges spanned the falls, carrying a road from the city down to the grasslands.
‘Did you not hear it?’
‘Hear what, Skeer? The waterfall? Of course I do: you sound like a mad man!’
‘No! The Screaming Peak! It’s calling them home. They’re returning to Windfell.’ He turned towards a set of double doors guarded by soldiers.
‘I thought only the Lord of Windfell could enter the crypt of your ancestors?’
Skeer looked back at Kesslar briefly, as the Hawkguard opened the great doors.
‘Griffyn?’ asked Kesslar. ‘That old buzzard’s behind this? I left him behind in Scoria – I’d be amazed if he got out of that hellhole alive!’
‘Well, he’s out,’ grumbled Skeer, the soldiers following out of the doors and down a flight of steps into the huge, circular courtyard within the keep. Curving granite walls rose high around them, stone ledges lining them on every level, the ancient seats of the Council of Hawklords. A carriage waited, horses kicking their hooves impatiently, alongside a platoon of Skeer’s personal guard.
Kesslar was thinking fast as he stumbled down the steps behind the Falconlord.
‘If Griffyn escaped Scoria …’ he muttered. Who else escaped the island of the Lizardlords? Surely few of them could have survived? If they find me here …
Skeer spun, raising his voice.
‘He is returning, and he brings the banished Hawklords with him!’ he cried. ‘I don’t give a flying spit about the where or why that helped him get here, but these are my enemies. They won’t forget the part I played in this city’s downfall. I was there when they chopped Griffyn’s wings off, for Brenn’s sake! If he’s returning, do you think he’ll be in forgiving mood?’
Kesslar watched the baron storm across the courtyard towards his waiting soldiers. He counted thirty of them and they struck the Goatlord as an uninspiring bunch. Their armour
and uniforms were pitted and shabby. A couple of the men glanced up at the skies nervously.
This is what happens when you’re posted to a ghost town in the peaks of the Barebones.
‘Why not stand and fight?’ shouted Kesslar. ‘There may only be Griffyn returning.’
‘True,’ replied Skeer. ‘Then again, what if they all return?’
‘Wave your precious scroll at them!’
‘I’m not a fool, Kesslar: that scroll will provide me with protection throughout Lyssia, but in the eyes of the brethren whom I turned against? That’s a risk I’m not prepared to take!’
‘Where will you go?’
‘You ask too many questions, old friend!’ yelled Skeer as his men loaded his chests and personal belongings into the carriage. ‘If you hurry, there’s a seat here for you! Make haste!’
Kesslar turned on his heel and ran, passing more soldiers who were hurriedly evacuating the keep. Following the curving corridors and sweeping staircases, the Goatlord crashed into the room he’d been occupying, dashing straight to the side of his bed. He reached under, gnarled hands catching hold of the five-foot trunk that was stowed beneath. With a heave it slid out. Kesslar took a key from his pocket and unlocked it.
The true fortune of Scoria lay inside: gems and jewels that had been captured from every continent. Rubies the size of fists; ingots of enchanted Sturmish steel; diamonds as big as apples; coins, crowns and coronets; regal rings and magisters’ rods. Kesslar allowed himself a momentary smile. That fool Ignus and his inbred brothers thought they’d get the better of him. Kesslar had already been plotting his heist, long before the Wolf boy and his allies decided to spoil the Lizards’ party in the Furnace. If anything, their escape and the ensuing chaos helped Kesslar make his getaway.
He locked the trunk shut once more, heaved it across his back, and set off through the door. Kesslar shook his head as he ran, cursing his luck. With Haggard lost to him and his bridges with Scoria utterly burned, Windfell had been his last hope of a place to recuperate and reform his plans. He and Skeer had always looked out for one another. Long ago the old Falcon had even sold Griffyn to him, along with his daughter, Shah. Their business relationship was about the longest standing friendship the Goat had ever known, Skeer being possibly the only therian he could ever truly trust.
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 29
