Trent’s breath steamed in the cold, freezing before his eyes into a white cloud. Storm’s hooves crunched along the icy road, and the remains of a recent camp came into view ahead. Trent’s fists were knotted into Storm’s mane; he was warier than he’d been since entering the forest. The rotten stench was growing strong, curdling the stomachs of rider and mount. Storm snorted her disapproval, throwing her head back, eyes rolling, as Trent urged her on with knees to her flanks. The camp was a little way off the road, having been made by a large party of people judging by the churned-up earth.
He spied the telltale ruts carved into the ground by wagon or caravan wheels; Romari, perhaps? How far behind them was he? A couple of days? Having never travelled the Dymling Road before, Trent had no idea how far it was to Brackenholme. His only clue was that Gretchen and Whitley were accompanied by Romari. Or people pretending to be Romari, whatever that meant …
The horse stepped gingerly through the abandoned campsite. Trent pulled her up, sliding off her back. One big fire had been buried, having clearly provided for a huge number of people. A hundred? More perhaps? Trent sniffed at the air, hand close to his mouth, following the foul odour. Storm remained where she stood, showing no desire to find its source. The scent took him away from the main part of the camp, deeper into the woods surrounding it. Twigs snapped ahead of him, causing him to halt immediately.
Yellow eyes appeared in the darkness, blinking out of nowhere. The two large, amber pools of light, fixed straight ahead, focused on Trent: the eyes of a predator. Trent’s mouth was dry, his heart beat wildly, the sweet, sickly smell washing over him now. Was the scent from the beast? Tentatively, Trent went for the Wolfshead blade on his hip. His hands closed round the sword handle, sliding it from its sheath. It was halfway out of the scabbard when the creature stepped forward into the moonlight.
The grey wolf was the largest he’d ever seen, the tips of its ears almost reaching Trent’s chest. It calmly stopped a few yards away from Trent, its eyes never blinking, fixed on him. The Wolfshead blade rattled, half out of the scabbard. Trent’s grip was tight, but his arms trembled. The beast could take his head off in one bite, but who was quicker? Still the wolf showed no sign of aggression; no baring of teeth, no low growls. It watched Trent intently. He stared back, trying to read the creature. Its eyes were mesmerizing, cool and confident. Is that you, Drew? Trent stifled a fearful smirk at the notion, his pulse strangely slowing in the presence of the predator. He let the Wolfshead blade slide back into the sheath as the wolf stepped away, even standing to one side to allow Trent by. The young soldier stepped forward cautiously, coming within a yard of the wolf as he walked past, close enough to touch its shaggy pelt. Nearby, Storm whinnied nervously, but the wolf paid no heed.
Trent kept facing the grey beast, stepping through the trees towards where it had emerged. The smell was dreadful now, causing him to gag. Unable to hold the wolf’s gaze any longer, Trent retched, bile rising in his throat. He stumbled, his forearm across his face as he turned towards the source of the vile odour.
The child was wedged into the roots of a tree, curled in a foetal position, a strange bilious slime covering her. She was maybe seven years old, and the only clue to her gender was the tiny floral stitching visible on her stained smock. With horror Trent noticed that, below the slime, her flesh had been torn off in places. He dry-heaved again as he turned away, collapsing into a nearby tree. What creature could do this? The stories he’d heard of the Wyldermen bore no resemblance to this type of attack.
The wolf’s head emerged between the trees beside him, bowed low, as if respectful of the dead girl. Why was the wolf averse to feeding on leftovers? Trent wondered. The creature wouldn’t go near the child, instead dropping on to its belly, huge jaws resting on its paws as a dog might lie before a fire.
Trent spent the next half hour digging a grave for the child, the Wolfshead blade acting as a terrible shovel. He hacked at the frozen soil, loosening it with the weapon before clawing at the chunks of hard earth with his bare hands, the wolf watching him all the while. When the pit was deep enough that he felt no scavenger could reach the contents, he tenderly lowered the child into the grave, praying to Brenn before pushing the earth back over her.
The young man returned to Storm, tethering her before finding somewhere to lie down. His teeth chattered and chills seized him, bringing on coughing bouts that rattled his chest like stones in a barrel. He couldn’t sleep for long. The creature that had killed the Romari child was no doubt stalking the travellers. Trent looked up, struggling to keep his eyes open as the big wolf lay down on the far side of the camp. Any anxiety he’d felt in its presence had all but gone. Its eyes were fixed on him, encouraging him to close his own to rest, to sleep. Trent faded away, blacking out as the cold gripped him, disappearing into a world of dreams where he chased Drew through the forest.
Trent woke to the sound of Storm’s gentle whinnies, hot snorts from the horse’s nostrils hitting his face. The night was still cold, the moon still up, but he was no longer shivering. He clenched his hands, blood coursing through them, fingertips no longer numb. He sat upright, patting himself. His chest actually felt warm across the leather of his breastplate. His fingers touched the earth beside him, and the ground felt strangely cool, but not freezing. Trent picked at the stray, dark hairs that had appeared on his cloak and armour, thick and fibrous strands of fur. His head jerked up, looking around the clearing. There was no sign of the beast that might just have saved his life.
The wolf was gone.
6
Homecoming
Flanked by six branches of the Woodland Watch, the long Romari caravan entered Brackenholme to a chorus of cheers from its people. Whitley rode at the front of the procession alongside Captain Harker, smiles of unbridled joy beaming from their faces at returning home. Whitley sat straight in Chancer’s saddle, every inch the Greencloak scout, while the crowds filled the streets, waving and rejoicing at the return of the Bearlady. Children sat on the shoulders of parents, and those who couldn’t find space in the street hung from the upper-floor windows of the shops and houses that lined the road. Gifts were passed across to the Romari who had brought their own safely home, and the visitors were treated like conquering heroes as they traversed the city streets.
‘She’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t she?’ said Harker, his jaw trembling with emotion as he looked over his city.
‘Thank Brenn she’s been spared the madness that’s engulfed the rest of Lyssia,’ replied Whitley, waving to the crowd as the leading horses halted in the city’s centre.
A large fountain marked the intersection of the Dymling and Dyre Roads, the latter leading out of the city to Stormdale in the east. The Romari caravan pulled up around the fountain, still swamped by the men and women of Brackenholme bestowing their thanks upon them. Gretchen rode forward on a pony, sidesaddle like any noble lady should, Whitley noticed with a wry grin. Quist and Tristam accompanied her, riding on either side. Stirga and Yuzhnik walked behind them, soaking up the crowd’s adulation for a moment, the big fire-eater clenching his fists over his head like a prize-fighter for all to see. Whitley turned Chancer as the Romari stepped forward.
‘My dear, sweet Stirga and Yuzhnik: I speak on behalf of both Gretchen and myself when I say we’re indebted to you for the kindness and courage you’ve shown since we met in Cape Gala. If ever you’ve had enough of the open road, you can call Brackenholme your home.’
Gretchen leaned down from her saddle, giving Yuzhnik a big kiss on the top of his bald head. The old fire-eater grinned, colour rushing through his cheeks as if his face were aflame.
‘I’d say that’s unlikely,’ said Stirga, ‘though the offer’s well appreciated. Wherever the road takes us, you may always consider us your friends, my lady. It was a pleasure to serve you.’
‘If you’ll allow us, my lady,’ added Yuzhnik, ‘the wee man and I would be honoured to put on a show for your people this evening. The Vagabond Players’ last perf
ormance ended in blood and thunder in High Stable – perhaps we can make this one end in tears of joy?’
‘The honour is ours,’ replied Whitley, bowing in her saddle to the Romari men.
She and Gretchen rode past them towards Baba Korga’s caravan, where the old woman now sat on the driver’s bench beside Rolff, speaking quietly to the mute giant. Rolff’s bravery in travelling ahead of the caravan to ensure no ambush awaited hadn’t gone unnoticed by the therian girls. Korga stopped whispering as she noticed the Ladies of Brackenholme and Hedgemoor approaching, her toothless smile wide.
‘Baba Korga,’ said Gretchen. ‘Words cannot describe the debt Whitley and I owe you and the Romari. I echo what Whitley told the others: the gates of our cities are open to your people. Always.’
‘You’re too kind, my lady,’ said the soothsayer. She held out her bony hands, gesturing towards the vista of the city. ‘While we’re here, we’ll treat it as home.’ Korga waved her hands at the girls, shooing them away. ‘Run along now,’ she said, winking. ‘One of you has a reunion with her mother to attend. Never keep a mother waiting!’
Whitley smiled, bowing again before turning Chancer round.
‘Come, cousin,’ she said as Gretchen sidled up alongside her. ‘I’ll race you to the Great Oak.’
The horse and pony leapt into life, galloping away from the fountain and the crowd, down the Dyre Road towards the ancient tree at the city’s heart, leaving the Greencloaks struggling to keep up and the Romari far behind.
Duchess Rainier stood in the throne room of Brackenholme Hall, surrounded by the ladies and gentlemen of the court, awaiting the arrival of her daughter as patiently as was possible. When the waiting became too much, she set off across the chamber, flinging the great doors open wide and rushing towards the balconies that encircled the lofty palace. Wide walkways ran between the enormous branches that spanned the Great Oak, leading towards armouries, kitchens, laundries and guest chambers. Rainier took none of these, instead heading straight towards the cage that was lifted skywards into the canopy, her court in tow. Barely containing her excitement, the duchess clasped her hands to her chest as the bamboo chamber finally rose to the decked landing of the ancient tree.
Whitley was first out of the cage, dashing the short distance and embracing her mother, all decorum lost. Rainier kissed Whitley’s head over and over, while the girl buried her face in the crook of her mother’s neck. The courtiers watched in tearful silence, each of them smiling. Finally the two parted, clinging to one another’s hands.
‘My child,’ gasped Rainier. ‘Praise Brenn for returning you to our halls! I feared all was lost.’
‘Many are, Mother,’ said Whitley, her eyes moist. Her mother’s face was wet with tears, news of Broghan’s demise at the hands of Prince Lucas clearly having found its way to Brackenholme.
Rainier shook her head. ‘You are home, my love, and that’s all that matters now.’
The duchess drew her in close again. Rainier noticed that Gretchen stood behind her daughter, and pulled apart from Whitley briefly to allow the Werefox into the embrace. Harker watched from a respectful distance, the Greencape members of the City Watch already approaching to seek audience with him. Though they had all taken the green, their roles were very different, with the Greencapes watching over the city within the walls, while the Greencloaks patrolled the world beyond.
‘Dear Gretchen,’ said Rainier, pulling away to look at her. ‘Look at how you’ve grown! What are you doing in our tree-house when you should be ruling realms alongside a king?’
Gretchen tried to laugh, but she was choked by emotion.
‘My lady,’ she managed. ‘I can’t imagine a palace in Lyssia more comforting than Brackenholme right now.’
‘Captain Harker,’ said Rainier, finally parting from the two girls. ‘I have you to thank for the safe return of my daughter and niece?’
‘Your Grace,’ said Harker, bowing. ‘The Romari accompanied us up the Dymling Road. We are deeply in their debt.’
‘Then I would seek council with their elder to thank them in person for such service.’
‘I’ll send word and call for the Baba,’ replied Harker, his smile fading as he broached a difficult topic. ‘When I return, I would speak with you about Duke Bergan and Lord Broghan, my lady. Baron Redfearn, the Duke’s uncle, needs to be informed about what has occurred. Brackenholme is undermanned, with so many Greencloaks having accompanied the duke to Highcliff. The fortunes of the Seven Realms shift on a constant basis, and we need to prepare for what’s to come.’
‘Agreed,’ said the duchess, her voice breaking. ‘We shall speak shortly. In the meantime, these ladies need refreshment, and clean clothes too.’
Whitley blushed at the idea that a change of clothes was her mother’s chief concern. Dame Rainier’s Werefox heritage was never more evident, and the parallels with Gretchen were all too clear to see. While the girl from Hedgemoor seemed delighted by the prospect of a bath and fresh dress, hugging her aunt tightly, Whitley’s priorities lay elsewhere.
‘If I have your leave, Mother, I would accompany Captain Harker and report to Master Hogan.’
Rainier loosened her hold on Gretchen for a moment, regarding Whitley with fresh eyes.
‘He didn’t lie, did he?’ said the Bearlord’s wife.
‘Who?’ asked Whitley.
‘Your father. In his last message from Highcliff, he mentioned how you’d blossomed. He said you were every inch a scout of the Woodland Watch.’
Whitley’s heart froze at the mention of him. ‘Any news?’
‘Nothing firm, my love. The Lionguard boast that he was killed by Lucas in Highcliff, yet his body wasn’t recovered. Those who fled the city say he got away, but again, no sightings. We can only pray he escaped …’
Whitley swallowed her grief, forcing it into the pit of her stomach before the courtiers of Brackenholme. She didn’t want to say what they all felt: that the more time passed by without him being found, the more likely the Lionguard’s rumour was true. She steeled herself in front of her people. Never show them you’re weak, child; that was what her father had always said. She swallowed the nausea that had risen in her throat.
‘I’ll return as soon as I’ve seen my master, Your Grace,’ she said, slipping back into the role of dutiful scout.
Rainier nodded reluctantly and dismissed her daughter from the throne room.
Harker and Whitley made quick time across the city once they’d run the gauntlet of the well-wishing Greencapes who crowded the Great Oak’s walkways. Everyone in Brackenholme wanted to see them and shake their hands. The anxiety of the guards and civilians was palpable to Whitley; she could sense the city was mourning the loss of Broghan and possibly Bergan. To have any of their own people return was something to celebrate. The two rode swiftly along the Dyre Road, back into the heart of the old town before taking the Dymling Road north to the Garrison Tree.
The giant tree was just as Whitley recalled, as misshapen and familiar as ever. With windows pockmarking the entire length of the twisting trunk, the Black Oak was part of the strongest memories of her childhood, visible from every corner of the city and likely to give children of all sizes nightmares. In sixteen years she’d never seen a leaf on its long black branches, even during the most glorious springs. While the Great Oak was a thing of beauty, boughs reaching for the heavens, the Black Oak that housed the garrison was its grotesque cousin hiding from the light.
Guards wearing the garrison livery waited to meet them, trees cut from silvery cloth shining on their black leather breastplates. They led the horses away, Whitley pleased for Chancer that he’d finally have time to rest after their arduous adventure.
‘Ho there, strangers!’ came a voice, as Machin’s friendly face emerged from the Garrison Tree gate. The last time Whitley had seen Machin had been at Cape Gala, the woodlander having been sent back to Brackenholme to report on the slaughter of Broghan’s branches at the hands of Lucas’s Lionguard.
&nb
sp; ‘You’re alive!’ cried Whitley, rushing forward to shake his hand.
‘Sorry if that disappoints you, m’lady,’ the Greencloak chuckled, saluting Harker. The captain embraced the man, patting him on the back.
‘You seem well, Machin,’ said Harker, slapping the man’s belly. ‘Hope you’ve left something in the galley for the rest of us.’
Machin was flustered only briefly by Harker’s mock reprimand.
‘Come,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I’m sure they can rustle up something from the pantry for a couple of hardy Greencloaks fresh from the road, Captain!’
The three turned to the gateway into the Black Oak and stopped; Master Hogan stood there, his face stern and grey, bristly jaw jutting out like a flint dagger. The old scout arched an eyebrow as Whitley approached him, the young girl’s steps hesitant after their months apart.
He’s bound to disapprove of my exploits, scouting for Captain Harker when I haven’t even officially been accepted into the brotherhood.
Hogan nodded his head, peering over Whitley’s shoulder as she stood in front of him.
‘See you’ve taken to carrying a quarterstaff, child, just like an initiated scout would.’
‘Yes, master,’ she said, nervously. ‘You see, I –’
‘Let’s get you indoors out of the cold,’ he said, cutting her off with a wink. Machin and Harker smiled. ‘While we’re at it, we can pay a visit to the quartermaster: see if he’s got a scout’s Greencloak in your size.’
Whitley beamed as the old man put his arm round her shoulder and let the newest scout of the Woodland Watch into the Garrison Tree’s yawning black gate.
7
A Bird in Hand
The cellar beneath Stormdale Keep was a cold and miserable place. Puddles of icy water filled the arched chamber, and water rose from the ground and dripped through from above, gathering around the wall edges and soaking into the crumbling brickwork. The stench of damp was thick in the air, and a variety of colourful moulds worked their way round the entirety of the curving ceiling. There were no windows, no shafts of light breaking the grim gloom; just one solitary torch spluttering in its sconce. It was the perfect place to interrogate a prisoner.
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 10
