Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  You’ll have to watch that one, brother, Vincent had hissed.

  Arriving at the base of the staircase, Vanmorten strode across to an unlit torch that hung from a bracket. Lighting it, he walked on to a rusted iron gate, feet slapping through the puddles. The stench of damp and stagnant water was overwhelming, while the constant sound of dripping echoed around the catacomb. Vanmorten reached a scarred, skeletal hand into his robes and withdrew a key, unlocking the metal door. It swung open with an ominous creak. Hector followed him through.

  Stone coffins lined every wall of the room, some recessed within the crudely carved ore-stained rock. The scurrying of rats replaced the dripping noise, as Vanmorten’s distant diminutive cousins fled from the torchlight. A black marble box, less than two feet square, stood on a pedestal in the centre of the low-ceilinged chamber, yet to be moved into the walls like those of the Rat King’s ancestors.

  ‘Here he is,’ muttered Vanmorten unenthusiastically. Hector had known from his years in Vankaskan’s service that the brothers disliked one another.

  ‘This is it?’ asked Hector, surprised to be faced with a small box and not a coffin.

  ‘What part of “only his skull remaining ” did you not understand, boy?’ snarled Vanmorten.

  ‘If you could leave me alone,’ said Hector, smiling politely.

  ‘That’s not going to happen, little pig. You may have fooled Opal and the prince, but I won’t be tricked so easily. You’ve had your fun. Say your piece to his box and let’s be on our way. I won’t dance to your tune a moment longer.’

  ‘With respect, Lord Chancellor, my business with your brother is a sacred and magisterial matter. The Guild of Magisters’ secrets go back to the Great Feast. To have you present while I bless his remains would be blasphemous.’

  Vanmorten sneered within his hood. Hector got a whiff of the decayed, burned flesh within the cowl as the Ratlord grated his teeth in annoyance.

  ‘You can find your own way back up, piglet,’ said the Wererat, tossing him the key. ‘Lock up when you’re done. And leave everything as you find it. I shall know if you’ve disturbed anything. Understand?’

  Hector nodded, smiling. Vanmorten stormed from the chamber, disappearing up the spiral staircase. Hector followed to check he was gone, before closing the door as quietly as its rusted hinges would allow. He locked it, checking it was firmly shut. Then he turned, walking back to the black box. Hector removed the lid and placed it gently on the floor, before reaching into the box and lifting the grotesque bleached white skull of Vankaskan.

  Oh, dear brother, gasped the Vincent-vile. He’s beautiful!

  ‘Now, my old master,’ he whispered, marvelling at the partially transformed skull.

  ‘To work.’

  The chanting was fast and breathless, ancient words of magick known only to the few. The black candle burned brightly in Hector’s right hand, oily black smoke billowing from the flame and gathering under the ceiling above. He tipped the candle over his open left hand, the molten wax pooling in his blackened hand, pouring between his fingers, searing the flesh and racing down his arm. All the while the chanting continued as the Boarlord sat, cross-legged.

  The box had been removed from its plinth, the skull of the dead Ratlord now gracing the stone pedestal alone. A circle of brimstone was carefully laid out around it on the ground. Hector’s words rattled from his mouth rapid-fire, unintelligible to anyone other than a magister. He stopped chanting suddenly, clenched his fist and slammed it down on to the stone floor once, twice, three times. The skull shuddered on the plinth.

  ‘Rise, creature, and answer your master’s bidding!’

  Hector felt the cold rush into the room. The candle flame sputtered, fighting the breeze, clinging to the wick and refusing to die. While the candle remained lit, the rest of the crypt darkened as the shadows crept in all round, the blackness all-consuming. The coffins and walls were swallowed by the darkness, the gate that led to the stairs vanished. Even the torch at the foot of the stairwell spluttered out, leaving the candlelight as the only illumination in the chilling chamber.

  A low chuckle bloomed slowly in the centre of the circle of brimstone, the yellow powder shifting as if caught by a breeze. The laughter rose, rasping like a blade on a file, causing the skin on Hector’s arms to bristle.

  Well this is a surprise, hissed the spirit of Vankaskan, tied to the dead Ratlord’s skull in the form of a vile.

  Hector listened for Vincent, but heard nothing, his brother silent in the presence of a spirit as powerful and steeped in magick as Vankaskan.

  ‘I’ve surprised myself, my lord,’ said Hector. ‘I wasn’t sure your spirit would still be here. I thought you might have moved on.’

  Alas no, sighed Vankaskan. My time in the mortal world isn’t over by a long chalk. One cannot be surrounded and immersed in magick one’s whole life and not be affected by it in death. Once one crosses over, the bridge remains, and as easy as it is for one to pass along it … things … can always come the other way. But then, you’ll know that already, won’t you, Hector?

  The young magister shivered at the mention of communing; the dead Ratlord was clearly already aware of Hector’s dabbling in the dark arts.

  ‘I’m in control, my lord,’ blustered Hector. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  Do you? You’ve raised my spirit, awoken me from my slumber, bottled my soul in the form of a vile. You know what you’re doing? Can you imagine how angry you’ve just made me, calling me to you like some kind of plaything?

  Hector leaned back from the edge of the brimstone circle, as he felt the cold breath of Vankaskan’s vile wash over him. He saw its shape now, a smoky black cloud of malevolence that paced the yellow line like a caged beast.

  You think this sulphurous dust can stop me, Hector? You think I won’t find a way out of this little prison you’ve constructed for me? Why did you summon me, Hector? Did you hope to get answers from me? An apology perhaps for the path I set you upon?

  Vankaskan’s words came thick and fast, loaded with hatred for the young Boarlord. Hector recoiled, turning his face as if the vile’s spittle might spatter his cheek.

  I will find you, Hector, hissed Vankaskan. I’ll come looking for you, once I’m free of this crypt. You’ve woken me now, Boarlord! I shall not sleep! I shall not return to the darkness!

  Hector turned towards the skull on the pedestal. Slowly, very deliberately, he reached out with his wax-covered, blackened hand and placed it within the circle. The Vankaskan-vile gasped as Hector drew his hand back, clearing away the yellow powder. He lifted his hand, the brimstone mixing with the cooling wax that was setting over his fist and forearm.

  ‘I’m right here,’ said Hector.

  Are you mad? gasped the Vankaskan-vile. Is this suicide?

  ‘No,’ answered the young magister, rising to his feet and stepping into the broken circle. He felt the dead magister’s vile now, enveloping him, its claws moving around his throat, trying to prise open his mouth and see his insides. Hector ignored the spirit, picking up the skull in his right hand. He opened his left and clicked his fingers, the wax cracking and tumbling to the flagged floor.

  ‘I’m here for everything, Vankaskan.’

  The Vincent-vile was on to the Ratlord’s vile in an instant, tearing it off his brother

  What is this? What’s going on?

  ‘You don’t understand, Vankaskan. There are more powerful creatures of magick than you out there. I met one; it shared its secrets with me.’

  The Ratlord’s vile screamed as the Vincent-vile tore into it, biting and clawing at the shadowy form.

  Release your hound, Hector!

  ‘Every ounce of knowledge your rotten skull has held on to, every scrap and cantrip of magick lore, I’m going to take from you, Vankaskan.’

  Hector ran his scarred hand over his throat where the wound from his encounter on the White Isle st
ill remained. Vankaskan’s spirit continued to wail as the Vincent-vile devoured it, bite after bite, smoky black morsels of pure magick torn from the air. Hector’s heart and head pulsed as the vile feasted on the dead Rat’s secrets. He stared at the skull in his hands, Vankaskan’s power rushing through his body, filling every corner of his dark and dangerous soul.

  ‘You took your time, Lord Magister,’ said Vanmorten as Hector arrived at the top of the staircase.

  Behind the Ratlord, Vorhaas and Vex huddled, deep in conversation, looking every inch like a pair of villains plotting treason. Ringlin and Ibal rose from where they sat with their Ugri companions. The soldiers of the Rats had formed a circle around the eight Browncloaks, watching the Boarguard all the while.

  ‘Well, you will bury your dead beneath the pits of hell, Lord Chancellor,’ replied Hector, a note of derision in his voice.

  Vanmorten covered the distance between them in a swift stride, his long robes swirling around him, dark as night. The Boarguard moved for their weapons, but the Vermirians’ swords and halberds were already poised to strike.

  ‘How dare you come here, thinking you can speak to me in such a way! What makes you think I won’t …’

  Vanmorten’s speech was cut short as Hector raised his ungloved left hand to his face, placing his forefinger to his lips. ‘Hush.’

  The hand was unrecognizable, the flesh withered and clinging to the bones as if drained of all fluid. Fingers, palm and forearm were all black, as if burned by a raging fire, giving the limb a skeletal appearance. The necrotic flesh remained taut as the knuckles clicked against one another.

  ‘Your hand …’ said Vanmorten, shocked by the appearance of Hector’s mummified limb. The Ratlord lifted his own disfigured fingers to his throat, running them over the scarred flesh of his neck.

  Hector opened his palm and examined it, as if noticing the changed appearance for the first time. He turned it one way and then the other, as though it belonged to another person, alien to the rest of his body. The skin of his face was the opposite, drained of blood, white as a skull. A sickly sheen of sweat glistened across his features as he smiled at the stunned Ratlord.

  Blackhand, whispered the Vincent-vile.

  ‘My hand?’ repeated Hector. ‘Oh, my hand is strong, Lord Chancellor. I have your brother to thank for that.’

  4

  Crossroads

  A crowd had gathered in Windfell’s great hall, returning Hawklords from the length and breadth of Lyssia and beyond. Each stared at the rough stone wall behind the carved wooden throne, their faces etched with sorrow. Drew stood among them, watching with grim wonder. A pair of threadbare, tattered wings hung staked to the brickwork, metal spikes having held them in place for many miserable years. The skeletal frames now resembled a moth-eaten spiderweb of thin, white bones, the odd remaining feather still clinging to the rotten remains.

  ‘Take them down,’ said a choked Count Carsten.

  One of the still-transformed Hawklords moved quickly, flying towards Baron Griffyn’s severed wings. Reverently, he lifted the torn bones and feathers from the spikes, gently folding them close to his chest as he returned to the ground.

  Thirty Falconthropes filled the hall, each one ready for battle. More were sure to follow. Drew had expected them all to look similar to one another, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. The Hawklords came in all shapes and sizes, as different as Krieg, Taboo and the Behemoth were from each other: tall and rangy, short and wiry, heavy-set, slight, young, old, fit and out of shape. The tombwraiths had soared across the continent, seeking out the Hawklords wherever they hid, carrying Tor Raptor’s screams to the four corners of Lyssia. Each had heard the call and answered.

  As Griffyn’s wings were taken away, the assembled Werelords looked to their most senior noblemen, Count Carsten and Baron Baum, the Eagles. Neither therian was as tall as Krieg or the Mammoth, but they were as imposing in their way, their muscular chests rippling beneath banded mail breastplates. The black-haired Carsten’s broadsword remained sheathed in its scabbard, while the bald and bearded Baum leaned on his spear, the weapon fashioned from a deep red wood, filed and burned to a terrible point. Drew wondered if the spear was naturally that colour or whether it remained stained from the recent battle.

  ‘Take the throne!’ called one of the Hawklords from the rear of the hall. A chorus of cheers broke out as the Werelords raised weapon and voice in support.

  ‘The brothers!’

  ‘Our new Lords of Windfell!’

  Carsten raised his hands to quieten the crowd while his brother smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Our enemies might have taken Griffyn from us, before we could be reunited, but the baron’s bloodline lives on,’ said Carsten.

  ‘This throne is not ours to take,’ added Baum, his voice deep and rich. He lifted his spear and pointed it over his shoulder symbolically.

  ‘Lady Shah is in the custody of King Faisal in Azra. She is the rightful Lady of Windfell and it’s our duty to return her to her father’s throne.’

  Nods and murmured agreements rumbled around the room, each Hawklord accepting the Eagles’ words without question.

  ‘How soon do we fly to her aid?’ asked Red Rufus, his scrawny neck bobbing as he spoke. The scar that had been visible from the top of his head right down to his throat as a Werehawk was all the more livid in human form as it gouged through the left side of his face. He cut quite a different figure now from the fellow who’d wanted to kill Drew in the Tomb of the Hawklords.

  Red Rufus continued. ‘How long has the Jackal held her prisoner? Wergar should have killed him when we had the chance. The only good Omiri’s a dead one.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, Red Rufus, as well you know,’ said Carsten, turning and holding his hand towards Drew.

  The Wolflord looked surprised when Carsten beckoned him, painfully aware he was a stranger among these people – they didn’t know him from the next man. The doubts had returned. What did Drew really know? What could he say that might convince them to aid him? Baum nodded, encouraging Drew to approach. Krieg’s firm hand pushed him forward, through the crowd, the Hawklords parting as he walked towards the dais. He climbed the steps, standing between the two Eagles and turning to face the assembled room.

  Humans had joined therians in the chamber, those hardy souls who still lived in the Barebones having returned after the sight of the Hawklords coming home to roost. Drew looked over to his companions. Krieg nodded encouragingly while the Behemoth looked on impassively. Taboo bared her teeth, somewhere between a snarl and a smile.

  ‘Faisal isn’t the enemy,’ Drew said at last turning to the assembled throng. ‘Azra’s surrounded by the Jackal’s foes: Doglords to the north and Hayfa to the south. Between them they’ll overrun Azra.’

  ‘I fail to see why we should care about the demise of Faisal,’ said Red Rufus. It was clear to Drew that the old falconthrope still distrusted him.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed another. ‘Leave the Hounds and Hyenas to tear one another apart. They’re savages.’

  ‘The Azrans aren’t savages. They’re a proud people, not unlike yourselves.’

  Red Rufus scoffed, but Drew continued.

  ‘Baron Griffyn’s last wish was that his people should fly to Faisal’s aid. That’s why Shah remains there, already lending her wits and wisdom to the Jackal’s cause. I understand the ill feeling you have for one another – the war you fought on Wergar’s behalf has left wounds that have festered over the years. But a new enemy’s at the gate. The world is changed.’

  ‘It’s not so different,’ said Red Rufus. ‘I see we’re still expected to follow a Wolf.’

  Drew winced. The old Hawklord’s attitude was belligerent but well-founded. Away from their homes for fifteen years and my first request is that they join me in battle? I’d feel the same.

  ‘This is everyone’s fight. The threat won’t go away. You can’t st
ay out of a battle that rages around you – the Catlords will come knocking. We need you. I was told the Hawklords were the bravest warriors to fight by the Wolf’s side, and loyal to the last.’

  ‘Loyal to old Wergar, young cub,’ said a voice from the rear of the group.

  Another voice chimed in. ‘You expect us to swear fealty on account of the love we had for the dead Wolf?’

  ‘We should fetch Shah!’ cried a third Hawk. ‘Get her out of the desert. Leave the Omiri to butcher themselves.’

  Carsten and Baum watched and listened in silence, leaving the debating entirely to Drew.

  It’s my task to convince these men that they should join me, thought Drew. ‘It’s not as simple as leaving them to fight it out,’ he said aloud. ‘The Catlords are behind the civil war in Omir. Canan’s Doglords aided the Bastians’ attack on Highcliff, and now Prince Lucas returns the favour. The young Lion sits on the throne, his counsel coming from the Rat King and the Werepanthers, Onyx and Opal. So long as Lucas and his cronies rule, nobody is safe. They mean to take everything, to crush the uprising of the free people of the Seven Realms. The fighting in Westland and the Barebones, the battles in Omir – it’s all one and the same. This is a war for Lyssia, and one that Bast is winning.’

  Drew felt his chest rising as he spoke, his words honest and true. His blood was up and his self-belief was solid. Although Red Rufus was the voice of doubt among the Hawklords, many of the old therian’s brothers seemed unconcerned by him. They nodded as Drew spoke, jaws set, eyes glinting with steely resolve as they saw the fight that lay ahead. If Drew had doubted the cause previously, that reservation had been vanquished.

  ‘Believe me, the Jackal’s our ally. The Cats are the constant throughout. The Dogs, the Hyenas, the Crows, the Rats are just adding their muscle and might to these enemies of the free people of Lyssia. Lucas might reign in Highcliff, but he’s a puppet, a mouthpiece. It’s his friends from across the sea who seek control over the Seven Realms. Onyx and Opal are the power behind the throne. If we help defend Azra, break the back of this assault from Canan and Hayfa, then we have Faisal’s army behind us. Each battle we win, we shall gain fresh allies. It starts with Azra. First we drive them out of Omir, then the Barebones and Westland. We chase them back across the Lyssian Straits, all the way back to Bast.’