Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  His voice had deepened now, his words coming out loud and heavy, bouncing off the walls of Windfell’s great hall. Every man and therian watched intently, caught up in the Wolflord’s passion.

  ‘There are three other therians in this chamber who have joined me in the fight. None are Lyssian – each hails from a land far away. They fought me in the Scorian arena, and now they fight by my side: free therians, united against a common enemy. I trust each with my life.’

  He looked at his three friends from the Furnace. Each of them bowed back, as the assembled Hawklords stared reverently at them.

  ‘These Werelords have travelled to a foreign land where they can expect little more than suspicious looks of fear and distrust. Their homelands have already been seized by the Catlords. They’ve seen first hand what Onyx is capable of. I would return with them to Bast, once the fight here is won, lend my life to their cause in return for their sacrifice. They’ve put their faith in me, and Brenn be my witness I won’t let them down.’

  Drew glanced at the skin of his curled fist, the flesh now grey as the Wolf fought to emerge. His eyes had yellowed over, and he could see the Hawklords nodding as one. Falconthropes clapped one another on the shoulder, punched their chests and raised their weapons.

  ‘Join me,’ growled Drew. ‘Let’s take the fight to the Beast of Bast.’

  The great hall of Windfell, silent for so many years, thundered with the sound of swords beating against shields and falconthropes cheering.

  The Hawklords had returned.

  Two hours had passed since Drew’s passionate speech in the great hall, and that time hadn’t been wasted. Windfell’s circular courtyard was a hive of activity as the Werehawks prepared for battle. Drew, Taboo, Krieg and the Behemoth had equipped themselves, replacing their battered gear and torn clothing with kit from the Hawklords’ armoury. Drew had found a studded black leather breastplate, fashioned in the style of the Sturmish smiths, with buckles and clasps that allowed the armour to change shape as a therianthrope shifted. While there were steel breastplates and chain shirts that might provide stiffer defence against blade or bow, the leather felt right for Drew, more lightweight and less cumbersome. Besides which, the wide-eyed youth in Drew found himself grinning: it looked fabulously fearsome. He even found a woodland cloak that wasn’t a million miles from the tattered old Greencloak he’d been gifted by Bergan and, snatching it up, he was ready to depart.

  The Hawklords looked resplendent, armed and armoured, gathered and ready to take flight. News had spread quickly. The population of Windfell continued to swell with humans returning to the city. While the majority who’d left might never return, some had made new lives in nearby hamlets and settlements on the Barebones’ slopes. With the sudden activity in the city above, they’d rushed home as if they’d heard Tor Raptor’s screams themselves. Many now hurried around the halls of the mountain keep, helping their former lords make preparation for war.

  In all, thirty-three Hawklords had returned, and thirty of them would fly to Omir. It wasn’t the hundred Drew and the late Baron Griffyn had hoped for, but thirty falconthropes flying into battle was still a tremendous coup for the Wolf and his allies. Three would remain in the mountain city to prepare the people for what lay ahead; ensuring the last reminders of Skeer’s reign were tossed from the parapets and Windfell was returned to its former glory.

  The first ‘wing’ of Hawklords had already taken flight, ten of them taking to the skies in the dim light of dusk. The second wing was now leaping skywards from the courtyard as they pursued their brethren into the clouds. Drew was the last of the therians from the Furnace to depart, Krieg, Taboo and the Behemoth having been taken off in the first two wings. Two Hawklords had been needed to carry the Weremammoth, each holding an arm as they lifted the giant aloft.

  Drew stood apart from the remaining Hawklords, lost in his own thoughts while they made the final adjustments to their armour ahead of the journey. He unsheathed Moonbrand and stared at the dark leather that spiralled about the handle, the wrappings centuries old yet unfaded by time. The white stone pommel was polished smooth, its likeness to the moon it was named after unmissable. In the warm light of day, the blade was steel grey, unremarkable.

  ‘What tales you could tell,’ he whispered, imagining his ancestors’ battles. An unending stream of questions ran through his head. Will this sword help reunite me with my friends? With Hector, Whitley and Gretchen? How many lives have been taken by this blade? How many wars won? Can one good soul really make a difference? Just a shepherd boy from the Cold Coast?

  ‘If ever a fight was just,’ he murmured.

  The flapping of the Hawklords indicated that the final wing was taking flight. He slid Moonbrand back into its scabbard, before returning to the remaining falconthropes. Only three remained, and as he approached two of them suddenly took to the heavens.

  And then there was one, thought Drew, striding up to the Hawklord who would fly him into the heart of Omir.

  ‘Hang loose like a bag o’ bones, you hear me?’ said Red Rufus, running his thumbs around the collar of his golden breastplate. ‘Limp as a dead man. That’s what I need you to be.’

  The old therian was shifting as he spoke, rusty-coloured feathers sprouting from his face as the yellow beak emerged. He straightened his bent frame as great red wings emerged through flaps of leather that ran down his armour’s back. As old as Red Rufus was, he was in remarkable shape when in therian form, his legs transforming into those of a powerful, deadly raptor. The skin of his calves hardened, reminding Drew of the reptilian limbs of Ignus and Drake, while his feet split into four immense, long toes, ending in curling black talons. The big predator’s eyes blinked as Rufus towered over the spellbound Wolflord.

  ‘I’m carrying a precious cargo. I’d like to get you to the Jackal in one piece. Understand, boy?’

  Drew nodded as Red Rufus shook his wings, ruffling the feathers. A shortbow hung from one hip and a quiver swung from the other.

  ‘Ready, Wolf?’

  Drew was about to answer when the clattering of a horse’s hooves beyond the walls distracted him. It was swiftly followed by shouts from the men who remained in the keep. Drew made for the commotion as he saw a crowd gathering outside the gate.

  ‘Where are you going? We need to be away – the last wing has already departed!’ warned Red Rufus.

  ‘A moment!’ cried Drew, rushing off before the cantankerous old Hawklord could object further.

  Directly outside the keep, the townsfolk had gathered around a horse, its rider slumped in the saddle. As Drew approached the man tumbled into the arms of the surrounding men and women. Some cried out when they noticed his cloak was dark with blood, broken arrow shafts protruding from his back.

  Although he wore battered military clothes beneath the cloak, Drew reckoned he was much younger than himself. The youngster’s face was ashen – a sheen of sweat glistening as his eyes fluttered. Drew counted four broken arrows in all, peppering his back and pinning his Greycloak to his torso. Recognizing the uniform instantly, Drew snatched his own waterskin from his hip. He bit the stopper off and held it to the boy’s mouth. The boy drank greedily, spluttering on the liquid.

  ‘Steady,’ said Drew.

  ‘I’m a healer, my lord. I can tend to those wounds,’ said an old woman at Drew’s shoulder, looking on with grave concern, but the Wolflord ignored her for the moment, pressing the injured Greycloak for answers.

  ‘You’re from Stormdale? A little young to be one of Manfred’s men, aren’t you?’

  ‘His son,’ said the boy, a bout of coughing racking his chest.

  ‘What news?’ asked one of the men nearby.

  ‘I have family in Stormdale,’ said another.

  Drew raised his hand, calling for silence.

  ‘Highwater’s fallen. Stormdale’s next. Villagers and farmers, women and children: surrounded,’ spluttered the boy, his voice fadin
g. ‘No mercy. Crows and Rats. Kill us all …’

  The crowd at Drew’s back parted as Rufus stepped forward, flexing his wings and casting shadows over the townsfolk.

  ‘Come, Wolf. You delay us. We need to go. We need to leave now.’

  Drew looked at the young Stag, the boy’s eyes closed, his head lolling heavy to one side. Drew lifted him carefully, cradling him, feeling the fever-heat rolling off him. He turned to the old woman.

  ‘Lead the way,’ he said, holding the boy close.

  Rufus grabbed Drew by the shoulder, holding him fast. ‘You’re not listening, Wolf!’

  Drew tugged himself free from Rufus’s grip, glaring at him. ‘We’re not going to Omir.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind, pup?’

  ‘Not at all, old bird,’ said Drew, his patience worn thin by the grumbling Hawklord. ‘You and I fly to Stormdale.’

  Epilogue

  Man and Boy

  No sooner had the lightning flashed than the thunder followed, tearing the sky apart above Moga. Ten ships blockaded the harbour, the Catlords’ navy having chosen the Sturmish port as their base in the far north. Flags from Bast, Highcliff and the Cluster Isles flapped in the fierce wind, the rain threatening to tear them from the masts. The fleet had arrived straight after the Maelstrom’s departure, on the hunt for the remainder of the Wolf’s Council. While others had followed the pirate ship, the remaining force had taken Moga for their own.

  Three men crept along the harbour road, hugging the walls and rushing between buildings. Passage was slow on account of the size of one of them, the man twice as big as his two companions. To be found on the streets after the ninth bell had tolled was punishable by death: fully two dozen Sturmish pirates swung from the gallows that had been set up in the crowded marketplace, two or three hanging from each of the scaffolds. Arriving at the ruined warehouse on the northernmost end of the docks, the two smaller men took up lookout positions in the shadows that shrouded the splintered building, while the enormous one squeezed through the broken doorway. The storm crashed overhead as the rain hammered down, the inside of the building exposed to the elements through the ramshackle roof. The big man shook the water from his heavy black cloak, the jewellery that adorned his hands and wrists jangling as he advanced into the heart of the warehouse. Another man emerged from the shadows, a weaselly looking fellow with a tatty black beard and a cutlass in his hand.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, nodding humbly in the presence of the newcomer. The noble dismissed him with the wave of a fat, gem-laden hand.

  ‘No time for pleasantries, Quigg. Where are they?’

  The bearded pirate turned, leading the huge man deeper into the building. The floorboards groaned under the fat one’s weight, threatening to splinter and carry them both into the harbour water below. The spluttering coughs of the young boy drew them through the shadows. The child sat on a barrel, a filthy old coat wrapped around him for warmth. He looked up as the two approached.

  ‘Baron Bosa,’ said the boy, jumping down from the barrel to bow dramatically before the fat man. Bosa rolled his eyes at the lad’s show of etiquette, considering the dire circumstances.

  ‘You know me, child?’

  ‘I’ve heard plenty about you, your lordship, from my shipmates and my captain.’

  ‘And where’s your ship now?’

  ‘Dunno, sir; she sailed off without us. They done him in, sir. Least they tried to.’

  ‘How is it you didn’t drown, boy? The Sturmish Sea could kill any man, yet you live?’

  The boy shrugged.

  ‘And you claim to have saved your captain’s life?’

  The boy supplied no answer, simply staring at Bosa with big brown eyes. The Whale of Moga turned to Quigg.

  ‘Where is he?’

  The black-bearded pirate pointed beyond the boy towards the dark recesses of the warehouse. The fat Whalelord strode past them, searching the shadows for his brother therianthrope. He found the man lying within a grounded rowboat, a tarpaulin laid across him as a makeshift blanket. His face was white, eyes red-rimmed as he stared up at Bosa. The Whale reached down and pulled the tarpaulin to one side, revealing the injured man’s torso; the usually pristine white shirt was stained dark.

  ‘I see you have visitors in Moga,’ whispered the wounded sea captain, trying to smile through bloodied teeth. ‘How long have they been lodging with you?’

  ‘My dear, sweet Vega,’ sighed the Whale, his voice thick with concern. ‘What have they done to you?’

  Acknowledgements

  I need to say a few words of thanks to the elite team of guys and gals at Puffin HQ who have not only supported me while I wrote the Wereworld series, but also got the books into readers’ hands. Clever birds, these Puffins.

  Much gratitude to Francesca Dow, MD extraordinaire, and to publishing director Sarah Hughes – I should probably restrict thanks to 140 characters as she’s fluent in Twitspeak! #cheekynorthernblighter

  Huge thanks to Jayde Lynch, Julia Teece and Vanessa Godden who’ve had to endure my company – and obsession with Full Englishes – while we’ve toured schools and festivals the length and breadth of Britain.

  Cheers to Samantha Mackintosh, Julia Bruce and Mary-Jane Wilkins in editing, for polishing my dirty lumps of coal into something that sparkled.

  Thanks to Zosia Knopp and her amazing rights team, including Jessica Hargreaves, Camilla Borthwick, Joanna Lawrie, Susanne Evans and Jessica Adams. Thanking yous to Winsey Samuels in production, Brigid Nelson and the children’s division sales team, Carl Rolfe and the Penguin sales reps, and merci to Rebecca Cooney in international sales.

  Thank you to Kendra Levin, my US editor, for all her hard work and enthusiasm.

  And they say you should never judge a book by its cover. While there’s a great deal of truth to that adage, I have to say that a spiffy cover really does bring a book to life. Thanks to fab designer Patrick Knowles and ace artist Andrew Farley for helping to make Wereworld turn folks’ heads. A special word of thanks has to go to Jacqui McDonough, Puffin’s art director and the first person I ever reached out to many, many years ago when I was trying to get into publishing as an illustrator. When I say ‘reached out’, a more accurate description would be ‘pestered for two years’. Whodathunk we’d finally get to work together after all that time, missus?

  Last two thanks go to my left and right hands: my editor, Shannon Park, for believing in Wereworld from the get-go, and my wife, Emma, for spotting my shoddy grammar and enlightening me in the process. Cheers, m’dears!

  Thank you all.

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published 2012

  Text and images copyright © Curtis Jobling, 2012

  Cover illustration © Andrew Farley

  Cover design by Patrick Knowles

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author/illustrator has been asserted
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  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978–0141–97229–9