Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘This is insanity,’ said Howard, pointing to a smaller figure in the group. ‘Your girl there, Pick, saw everything! Tell them, child; go on!’

  The girl named Pick seemed to shrink as all eyes landed on her. She’s but a child, thought Bergan. Hitch gave the girl a hard glare, and this wasn’t lost on the knights of Stormdale. She looked away.

  ‘I saw nothin’.’

  ‘That old swine’s intimidating her,’ said Howard, pointing at Hitch who grinned menacingly.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Bergan, but his voice cracked; the usual power was missing. Nobody heard him as the argument grew to a crescendo. The Bearlord cleared his throat just as Palfrey made a grab for the girl.

  ‘Tell the truth, child!’ Palfrey shouted, but it was too late as the stand-off boiled over into chaos.

  Hitch’s knife came out of nowhere, flying through the air and jabbing Palfrey in the ribs. The knight acted instinctively, lashing his arm out and catching Hitch in the face with a crunching blow from his elbow as he fell. The girl, Pick, caught him as he tumbled, as three of the other men suddenly launched a flurry of punches and kicks at Howard. Within seconds knives were drawn as the men turned on one another.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Bergan, his voice still weak, but the fight continued. Fry let the Bearlord lean against the tunnel wall before unsheathing his longsword and reaching into the melee to pull two of the men off Howard. Bergan caught sight of Hitch, his nose and grinning mouth bloodied, dagger in hand, as he reached down to wrestle Palfrey from Pick.

  ‘What in Brenn’s name is going on here?’

  The yell echoed down the corridor, halting the scrap momentarily. From the tunnel beyond the crowd of bodies, Bo Carver emerged. The Lord of Thieves had a face like thunder as he stared the men down, bald head shining in the torchlight, the serpent tattoo that snaked around the right side of his face twitching as if ready to strike. Another of the thieves stood at his side, the two returning from a scouting foray.

  ‘Seems we’ve had us a disagreement with your noble friends, my lord,’ said Hitch, standing and pulling the injured Palfrey with him.

  ‘Put him down,’ gasped Howard from under a scrum of bodies.

  Hitch held his knife close to Palfrey’s throat. ‘Not likely.’

  ‘You heard the man, Hitch,’ said Carver. ‘Release him.’

  ‘Called me a liar they did, my lord. Said I was a thief, didn’t they?’

  ‘You are a thief, Hitch,’ said Carver, rolling his eyes. ‘Let the knight go and this goes no further.’

  The scrawny man dug the blade into the flat of Palfrey’s jawline. ‘Reckon I’m done takin’ orders from you too, my lord.’

  ‘Now isn’t the time for mutiny, Hitch,’ said Carver, stepping forward. His hand hovered over the row of knives at his hip, fingertips brushing the handles.

  ‘Don’t be getting any ideas. It ain’t just me who’s done followin’ your lead; ain’t that right, lads?’

  The men muttered and nodded, disengaging with Howard and grouping together. Hitch and the others faced Carver defiantly; even the fellow who had moments earlier been scouting with the Lord of Thieves now stood with his comrades.

  ‘See,’ said Hitch. ‘You ain’t got respect any more. With you locked up these young ’uns have forgotten how it used to be. So I’ll make this easy for you.’ Hitch smacked his lips, running a tongue over his gap-toothed smile. ‘We’ll be taking the food. What’s left of it.’

  Carver snatched a knife from his belt and strode forward.

  Hitch pressed his blade hard against Palfrey’s throat. ‘I’m warning you! Back off or there’ll be blood spilt.’

  One of the turncoats stepped forward and grabbed the provisions pack. By the firelight Bergan could see something shifting within the bag, the canvas rippling with whatever creatures they’d foraged from the cave. Another man took up the only coil of rope, a couple of remaining unlit torches and the last of the oil flasks.

  ‘What does this achieve?’ asked Bergan, at last loud enough to be heard. They all turned to face him. A couple of the deserters looked away, unable to hold the gaze of the Lord of Brackenholme. Hitch had no such problem.

  ‘The food goes further. The fuel goes further. That’ll get us out of here.’

  ‘You don’t know where you’re going,’ said Carver.

  ‘And you do?’ said Hitch. ‘We been following you for weeks, goin’ round in circles no doubt. We should’ve stayed with the civilians; I bet they’re out of here now, not stuck dragging some crippled Werelord around!’

  ‘And us?’ said Bergan. ‘What becomes of us?’

  ‘Ain’t my concern, Your Grace, is it?’

  One of the men tossed them a torch brand, the thin shaft of timber clattering on to the tunnel floor.

  ‘Can’t say fairer than that,’ muttered the man.

  ‘Very noble,’ agreed Hitch. ‘See, we can be civilized like you folk when needs be. Wouldn’t be leaving you alone in the dark. Plus, you can keep your weapons. Brenn knows what you’ll bump into down here!’

  The group edged their way towards the tunnel that Carver had emerged from. Hitch dragged Palfrey with him, using the bleeding knight as a shield. Carver stared as they passed him by.

  ‘I promise, if we meet again,’ said the Lord of Thieves coldly, ‘you die.’

  ‘Revenge should be the last thing on your mind,’ chuckled Hitch. ‘Might want to start thinking about where your next meal’s coming from.’

  With that Hitch let go of Palfrey, letting him crumple to the floor. The thieves dashed off down the tunnel, quickly putting distance between them. Carver and Howard rushed to Palfrey, working hastily to staunch the blood flow at his hip. Pick had remained, and watched them nervously. Fry returned to the duke who now slumped against the wall, in danger of passing out. His body cried out for rest again, but that was impossible.

  ‘From bad to worse,’ said Fry, helping Bergan rise.

  ‘Was it Palfrey and Howard?’ asked the Bearlord, grimacing as he rose. ‘Must I thank Duke Manfred’s knights for coming to my assistance and saving my life?’

  ‘No, my lord; they were with me. We came back to help as soon as we heard he’d rescued you.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Dug you out of the rubble with his bare hands, he did. You should’ve been dead,’ said Fry, just as Carver looked up from tending to the wounded knight. The duke and the Lord of Thieves stared at one another.

  ‘It’s Carver you need to thank.’

  5

  To Build an Army

  At a glance, the mass of Greycloaks that filled the castle courtyard seemed impressive. Lord Reinhardt’s great-uncle, Baron Hoffman, and the knights of Stormdale led them through their drills, the army having swelled overnight from eight hundred to nearly two thousand. Closer inspection of the new recruits, however, revealed some startling facts. Old men made up the majority of the militia, aged folk who should have been sitting by their hearths rather than swinging staffs and swords. These were men of the fields, farmers who had spent their lives hefting spades and pitchforks, not wielding weapons in battle.

  Beside them stood the women of Stormdale, shoulder to shoulder with their fathers, pushing their bodies to the limit as the captains and knights watched, barking instructions. And then there were the youngsters, youths not yet old enough to shave, let alone use a bow. All had stepped up to throw in their lot; none would let their city fall without a fight.

  Drew stood on the ramparts of the Lady’s Tower, watching the crowd work through the exercises Red Rufus had prepared for them. The old Hawklord had been schooling a large contingent of the militia in archery. Thirty straw targets had been set up against the northern wall, and the most promising bowmen and women were now under Red Rufus’s wing. But too few arrows found their target and too many lay on the snow-packed ground at their feet.

  Drew looked up to see that Lord Reinhardt had joined him, and the Staglord’s eyes were fixed on the crowd below.

  ‘Are
we doing the right thing?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Reinhardt swept his hand towards the scene below. ‘Asking women, children and old men to fight for us? What chance do they stand if the enemy should breach our defences?’

  ‘Better than if they hadn’t stood up at all,’ replied Drew. ‘These people have willingly taken up arms, Reinhardt. None of them has been forced into taking the Grey. Looking at the army that gathers each hour beyond your walls, the choice is quite simple. Fight or die. If we do not defend Stormdale with every able hand, we may as well open the gates to the Rats and Crows now.’

  ‘I just fear I’m putting a great many lives in danger.’

  ‘You’re doing no such thing – the moment the Catlord set his soldiers on Highwater you were in peril. And with respect, it’s not our decision or mistake to make. The people of Stormdale make their sacrifice willingly.’

  Lord Reinhardt leaned against the crenulated stones on the tower’s edge. ‘I’m under no illusions as to the challenge we face, Wolflord. And I’m aware of the limitations of my people.’

  Drew looked away from the crowd towards the Staglord.

  ‘Limitations? I hope these people surprise you, my lord. In my experience, people will do extraordinary things if their lives depend upon it, be they therian or human.’

  If Reinhardt had planned to challenge Drew further on his people’s ability, he thought better of it. Instead, the two turned to look out to the west where the enemy forces grew. There were maybe two thousand gathered now; battle-hardened warriors, men who had spilled blood in the names of the Rats and the Crows. Colourful banners could be seen dotting the encampment, highlighting the different factions which had travelled from Riven and Vermire to put the Staglords to the sword. There was no sign of the Lionguard or any Bastians among their number – Drew suspected that Onyx had set them to work elsewhere. While the largest portion of Vorjavik’s army was gathered directly to the west, with the Dyrewood at its back, the tents and fires circled the city, leaving the occupants of Stormdale no escape route.

  ‘Did you send word to Brackenholme?’ asked Drew, looking beyond the enemy camp towards the dark green forest that covered the horizon.

  ‘Scouts were sent to Brackenholme and the other Bear city of Darke-in-the-Dyrewood, but whether anyone comes to our aid is another matter. With Bergan reportedly slain in the battle of Highcliff and Broghan murdered in Cape Gala, I should imagine the Bearlords have enough to worry about. No, I’m not expecting our friends from the Woodland Realm to help us on this occasion.’

  With thoughts of Brackenholme, Drew found himself wondering about Whitley and Gretchen. The last he’d seen of them had been just before he’d been swept away from High Stable in Lady Shah’s talons. How he wished he could see them now, or at the very least could know they were safe from the violence that poisoned Lyssia. He hoped they were together, and could find allies. Hector’s out there, somewhere, too. I may be needed here, but my old friend won’t let them down. He’ll go looking for them, I know it.

  ‘Don’t lose hope, my lord,’ said Drew. ‘Help is out there. Help shall come.’

  ‘You’d best get praying to Brenn it does,’ said a voice from the stairwell behind them. ‘Half of ’em are as likely to put out their own eye as find a Rat or Crow with their accursed arrows.’

  Red Rufus hopped up the last few steps to join them on the tower top, not even out of breath after the steep climb. He might have been as old as any therian Drew had met, but the Hawklord was still as nimble as a young falcon.

  ‘The training isn’t going well?’ asked Reinhardt, worriedly.

  ‘What can you really expect ’em to learn in one day? They know which part of the bow to pull – that’s about it as far as I can tell. It’ll be a miracle if they don’t sever their fingers before they’ve even loosed ’em off!’

  Drew sighed at the Hawk’s resigned demeanour.

  ‘Surely you should be filling them with confidence, not beating it out of them?’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve said what I’m supposed to, built ’em up and all that. They all think they’re world beaters now, ready to take on old Onyx himself should the Werepanther turn up on the doorstep. But I wouldn’t put too much faith in ’em, cub. They’re too green; they ain’t warriors.’

  Drew was undeterred. ‘Every one of them has a part to play in the battle that lies ahead,’ he said.

  ‘And that battle draws near,’ said Reinhardt, turning on his stiff leg. ‘I’m going to address them. See if my words can help lift them a little more.’

  ‘Fill yer boots,’ said Red Rufus as the Staglord descended the staircase. ‘They need every morsel they can get!’

  ‘Are you always this disheartening?’ said Drew.

  ‘Boy, this isn’t some game we’re playing here; it’s life and death –’

  ‘I know that better than most,’ snapped Drew, before he could stop himself.

  Red Rufus nodded respectfully. ‘As do we all. But we’re asking these people to do things they’ve never dreamed of in their worst nightmares. You really think they can take a man’s life when push comes to shove?’

  ‘They’ll do what they must to defend their home. I don’t doubt them for a moment. I only worry what the cost shall be.’

  ‘And what would you do, cub, when the bones are cast?’

  Drew looked at the old Hawk as Red Rufus scratched at his throat, fresh snow falling around them. ‘Speak your mind, Red Rufus. Don’t hold your tongue: it doesn’t suit you.’

  The Hawk turned his face to Drew, the old scar creasing as his eyes narrowed. ‘I know you chewed your paw off. That must’ve taken some doing. But how far would you go to ensure the lives o’ them people? How low would you stoop to win this war?’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Drew, his stomach cold at the thought of where Red Rufus’s mind was taking them.

  ‘Wars aren’t always won by brave words, lad. Sometimes you gotta get yer hands dirty.’

  Red Rufus lifted his own, the filthy nails curling round as he balled his bony fingers into fists.

  ‘Could you kill a defenceless foe if it saved the lives o’ many?’

  Drew paused, unable to answer the falconthrope’s question. What was he suggesting?

  Red Rufus looked back to the crowd below as they worked through their drills.

  ‘I didn’t think so. That’s where you and your old man differ, eh? Wergar wouldn’t have thought twice about killin’ a man if it brought him the result he wanted.’

  ‘I’m not my father,’ said Drew. ‘There’s always another way. You advocate murder, Red Rufus. That’s not who I am.’

  ‘If Onyx were here, now, before us, you wouldn’t kill him?’

  ‘I’d try and reason with him first …’

  Red Rufus stared over the ramparts as the snowfall grew heavier. ‘There’s no reasoning with these folk, boy. They’re killers. ’Tis the only language they understand, y’hear? Until you’re prepared to take the life o’ one of ’em – under any circumstances – then the hope you speak of so proudly? It’s lost.’

  With that, Red Rufus turned, tugging his cloak around his shoulders before setting off down the stairs.

  Drew stood alone on the tower top a while longer, queasy with fear and racked by doubt, the Hawklord’s grim words ringing in his ears as the snow slowly blanketed Stormdale.

  6

  Blackhand

  The Rat City of Vermire rose high above the White Sea, ramshackle buildings clinging to the cruel cliffs and claiming the land as their own. Those homes closest to the seafront bore little resemblance to houses, they were a ragtag collection of huts and tarpaulin providing scant defence against the wind and waves. Above the shanty town stood the city, taverns and warehouses colliding with one another on the steep slopes, crowding out the smaller residences squeezed in between. The streets sang with the cries of the merry and murderous, the cobbles awash with beer, blood and body parts. Higher still were
the grand houses of the merchant classes, pirate captains and back-stabbing thief-lords who vied with one another for the attention of the Rat King. The collective name for the Wererat brothers who ruled the land, the Rat King courted the wealthy of Vermire, playing them off against one another. The mansions of these bickering sycophants were gathered around the base of the Ratlords’ citadel which rose like a monstrous black spire from the detritus below.

  Hector, the lord of Redmire, looked down from the giant tower, the din of the city reaching the lofty balcony of his accommodation. As the newly appointed Lord Magister of Prince Lucas’s court, the young Boarlord had been quick to pay Vermire a visit, the city being the final resting place of his old master, Vankaskan. Like Hector, the old Wererat had been a magister, learned in healing magicks, but a dabbler in the dark arts. Hector’s growing understanding of necromancy had served him well, and the young magister had leached a wealth of arcane knowledge from the skeletal remains of the dead Wererat.

  Lord Vanmorten and his siblings, the surviving members of the Rat King, had been kind enough to afford Hector accommodation, even allowing the young magister’s Boarguard to remain in his quarters. There were eight Boarguard in all, though that would change once the Myrmidon, the late Queen Slotha’s warship, returned home to Tuskun from Highcliff without its leader. News of the Werewalrus’s demise at Hector’s hand would spread quickly. Her people – the Ugri, tribal inhabitants of the frozen tundra – had a new master now. Their warrior tradition of swearing fealty to any who defeated their leader was another piece in the jigsaw of the young magister’s destiny: the Ugri were now his to command.

  Hector glanced back to where his men sat, tossing bones and drinking. His cronies Ringlin and Ibal, his only true confidants, had wasted little time in getting to know their new Boarguard brethren, and the age-old pastime of gambling cemented their new-found friendship. Lean, rangy Ringlin laughed suddenly, clapping the back of Two Axes as short, fat Ibal scooped up the pot, giggling as he gathered his winnings. Two Axes was the chief of the Ugri who had first sworn the blood-oath to Hector, as he held the best grasp of the Western tongue. The giant warrior gave Ringlin a playful punch in the jaw, sending the rogue reeling and prompting a chorus of laughter from the other five Ugri.