Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  Flint bowed, clicking his heels, and turned to make for the exit.

  ‘Wait!’ said Hector, raising his gloved hands. ‘I have a better idea.’

  The Crow and the Panther both stared incredulously at the youth.

  ‘You have a better idea than Lord Onyx?’ said the Crowlord.

  ‘Let the boy speak, Flint. There must be some reason why my sister Opal insisted we make a place for him on the Prince’s council.’ Onyx looked at Hector. ‘Well? Spit this glorious idea out.’

  Good, Hector. You have their attention.

  ‘Do not capture Bergan.’

  Flint broke into fits of laughter, before Onyx raised a hand to silence him.

  ‘There’s got to be more to your grand scheme than that. Continue, magister.’

  ‘Let me meet him, with a couple of my men. If he’s been lost in the wilderness there’s no chance word could have reached him yet of my business with Vega and Manfred. He’ll trust me.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’ asked the Werepanther.

  ‘Do you have any … expendable troops, roughnecks you can afford to lose? Not too many, of course, but enough to allow me and my men to prove our loyalty to the Bear.’

  Onyx looked at Flint.

  ‘There’s Muller’s skirmishers, my lord. We can send the sheriff’s nephew, that idiot Stephan, to intercept them.’

  Onyx nodded. ‘Then what, Blackhand?’

  ‘Once we’ve shown our worth, we accompany the duke for the remainder of his journey. I can get into Icegarden when no one else can. When I’m within the White Bear’s city I can bring down the walls from within. I wouldn’t just be delivering Duke Bergan to you: you’d get Duke Henrik also, as well as any other Werelords who’ve sided against the Lion.’

  That’s not all, dear brother, whispered the Vincent-vile. There’s more to your plan, is there not? Another reason why you want to visit the Strakenberg? The stories say the Wyrmstaff supposedly lies hidden in the White Bear’s palace, guarded by the Daughters of Icegarden. Who knows what secrets you may unlock once you have the artefact in your grasp?

  Vincent wasn’t wrong. His father had known that it was more than just a myth: the staff existed, a relic from the age of the Dragonlords, lost through time.

  ‘There’s only one problem with your plan, Lord Magister,’ said Flint. ‘You know nothing about the interior workings of Icegarden. The city’s a fortress, carved out of the mighty Strakenberg. Henrik has kept Icegarden’s secrets hidden from the outside realm for decades. Only the Sturmish know where its weaknesses lie.’

  ‘Only the Sturmish know the secrets of Icegarden?’ asked Hector. ‘A Sturmlander like the one lying dead at our feet?’

  Hector tugged off his gloves, folding them and tucking them into the strap of his belt. Onyx and Flint recoiled as their eyes landed on the withered left hand that the magister flexed before them. The flesh appeared mummified, stretching as Hector cracked his knuckles, threatening to split open with the strain.

  ‘Have you finished with this scout’s body, my lords?’

  Onyx nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the magister’s black limb.

  Hector opened his travelling case and began to remove an assortment of strange implements: thin metal spatulas, a glass jar of dark yellow powder, a black candle.

  Very good, brother. You’re not as hapless as you look …

  Hector ignored the vile’s voice and continued as he withdrew what he needed. ‘You said you were unable to interrogate the prisoner?’ he asked, smiling. ‘I can help you with that.’

  2

  True Colours

  The Dymling Road that cut through Brackenholme was empty but for a lone, barefoot figure swiftly making his way towards the southern gatehouse. Rolff hung close to the stoops that rose up from the street’s edge, slipping between shadows as he passed the residences and businesses that lined the grand avenue. Baba Korga’s bodyguard came to a halt when he reached the last building before the tall palisade wall. Crouching behind a rain barrel, he surveyed the scene ahead.

  Two of the City Watch stood at the base of the sixty-foot-tall gatehouse, a tree trunk running from one tower to the other, barring the great doors shut. Rolff had been informed that the barring mechanisms were housed within the right-hand tower, the door to which was locked from within. But that was no matter to the hulking giant; he wasn’t planning to enter from ground level. Reaching inside the fold of his dirty cloak, he withdrew his blowpipe and dipped his fingers into a small wooden box on his belt, delicately removing two darts. He checked the distance: perhaps forty feet. Dropping a dart into the chamber, he raised the blowpipe to his lips.

  The first Greencape went down in a heap as the needle snapped into his throat before his companion could comprehend what was happening. The poison was fast-acting, and the man’s heart was already shutting down as his friend reached down to help him. The next dart hit the remaining guard in the wrist of his outstretched hand, and the soldier’s eyes widened. The last thing he saw was the Romari emerging from the darkness. He was dead by the time he collapsed on to his comrade.

  Rolff wasted no time, dragging the corpses away from the gates and stowing them in the shadows beside the tower. Reaching into his cloak again he pulled out two long, serrated daggers, fashioned from the black flint found deep within the Dyrewood. Stepping up to the wall, he began to scale the logs, the knives providing purchase while his feet propelled him higher. Once at the tower’s summit he craned his head over the crenellations.

  Three more Greencapes stood before him, their backs turned as they looked out to the meadows and forest that loomed beyond the wall. A large brass bell was suspended from a scaffold in the centre of the tower, an open staircase beside it disappearing below. Three pikes rested in their rack, close to hand but not close enough for the trio. Silently, Rolff hauled himself over the wooden parapet, bare feet landing gracefully on the decking. The blowpipe came out again, and three more darts were delicately removed from the box on his hip. One of the Greencapes was pointing into the darkness, his voice rising with concern. Rolff saw too that one by one the torches in the Watch Trees were being snuffed out, exactly as planned.

  The first Greencape took a dart in the back of his neck, which sent him over the wall in a shaking death fit. Unfortunately for Rolff, his companions were already turning, rushing towards the bell tower and their pikes. The Romari giant dropped the blowpipe and whipped out his knives once more, leaping towards the nearest soldier, who headed for the alarm. He had lost the element of surprise, and the guard tore a dagger from his belt as his companion snatched a pike from the rack. Rolff threw the first knife, catching the Greencape in his weapon arm so he fumbled with his dagger. Before he could catch it the giant was on him, the second knife plunging into the man’s leather breastplate in successive, deadly blows.

  With his path to the bell still blocked by the Romari killer, the third Greencape shouted out loud, his voice booming along the palisade wall. Rolff cursed his ill luck, ripping his knives free as he faced the last guard. The Greencape lunged in with his pike but the giant skidded forward beneath the swing, sliding along the floorboards and past the soldier’s legs. The flint knives tore through the Greencape’s hamstrings, causing him to fall crippled to the deck beside the Romari. The soldier screamed as Rolff rolled on to him, his great weight crushing the air from his lungs.

  ‘Please!’ cried the man, imploring the giant to show compassion. ‘I’ve a wife! A family!’

  Rolff smiled, his face inches from his enemy’s, lips peeling back to reveal sharply filed teeth.

  ‘Family?’ said the Wylderman, his rarely used voice grating like a bone-saw. ‘My family come!’

  Baba Korga’s henchman plunged his teeth into the soldier’s throat, quickly turning the green cape red.

  Gretchen stood on the balcony, looking out over Brackenholme. The hour was late and, while the city slept, the Werefox found herself awake. It was good to have Whitley close by; the Bearlady slept in the
neighbouring bedchamber. Gretchen had scoffed at the notion of Whitley becoming a scout when she’d first heard of her cousin’s desire, but seeing her in action, as capable as any man who donned the green, she found herself both envious and proud; envious of her cousin’s liberation from the path most Wereladies took, and proud of her achievement.

  The Werefox’s quarters were more than comfortable, Duchess Rainier’s attendants having hastily prepared the best state room her hall had to offer. All the accessories a princess required were present: the mirrored dressing table full of powders and perfumes, the bookcase provisioned with classics of literature, the wardrobe with countless beautiful gowns. Yet Gretchen felt strangely dissatisfied; the once self-absorbed Lady of Hedgemoor found herself thinking about her other friends, and where in Lyssia they might be.

  Hopefully Hector was safe from harm. She’d been informed that a handful of Werelords, including the young Boar, had safely escaped Highcliff by ship when the Omiri Doglords and the Cats of Bast had attacked.

  As for Drew, he was lost, Brenn knew where. Gretchen’s heart faltered when she thought of what might have been. Prince Lucas had become a monster, a pale shadow of the young boy she’d been groomed to marry from a young age. At one time she had admired him, but after the way he’d treated her and Lyssia, she now reviled him. In Drew she had found someone who had revealed to her the wider realms of Lyssia and the struggles of those who lived there. Gretchen thought back to when she’d first encountered him, his grey eyes peering out from beneath an unruly mop of black hair, filthy from the road, desperately in need of a good wash. His lack of etiquette, his discomfort around nobility; all these traits flashed through her mind and made her smile. Until she remembered how she’d been: the spoilt princess who knew everything. How wrong she’d been.

  ‘A copper for your thoughts?’

  Gretchen looked up, shocked to find Whitley standing a short distance away on her own balcony, leaning against the thick oak rail. Gretchen’s cheeks flushed.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. You?’

  ‘I heard you pacing,’ answered Whitley, smiling. ‘For such a delicate flower your tread can be terribly heavy.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m having trouble … adjusting, now we’ve a roof over our heads.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Every time I returned from scouting I’d find –’

  Whitley’s words ended abruptly as she stood up straight by the banister, looking past Gretchen and out beyond the walls of Brackenholme.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked the Foxlady, casting her eyes out into the Dyrewood.

  ‘The lights,’ said Whitley, her face a mask of concern.

  ‘Lights? I don’t see any.’

  ‘That’s just it. The guard towers in the treetops beyond the meadow: their torches burn throughout the night, as a means of signalling to the City Watch on the wall.’

  Whitley reached out, picking up her quarterstaff from where it rested against the banister. ‘The torches are out. All of them.’

  As Storm’s hooves splashed through the puddles of the Dymling Road, Trent Ferran was one of the first to witness the signal torches vanishing from view. Through the dense woodland, the fires in the guard posts had marked his journey’s end, confirming that his frightening ride through the Dyrewood was coming to a close. He’d spied more of them on his approach, spaced out evenly through the canopy atop the countless towering trees. When the initial torch blinked out he’d thought nothing of it, only for more to follow. One by one, they disappeared, quickly followed by the despairing cries of men.

  When the figures began to appear through the trees, horse and rider both felt fear grip them. It was as if the forest had suddenly come alive, with scrambling masses of limbs and spears appearing out of the darkness, shaggy heads bobbing as a horde of Wyldermen charged in eerie silence through the bracken and mud. As some of the Wyldermen caught sight of the lone rider, they peeled away from the main mass and headed to intercept him.

  ‘Hyah!’ Trent shouted, spurring Storm on as Wyldermen swarmed around them. One of the wild men leapt into Storm’s path, his skin daubed black with mud and etched with blue woad symbols. His axe came up as the horse charged him, its flight slowed when Storm’s hooves kicked out, crushing his ribcage with a sharp crack. Then the two were away, charging along the Dymling Road and out from the cover of the trees.

  The meadows might have been something to marvel at on a clear, spring day – acres of open grassland in stark contrast to the woodland. But on a chill winter’s night, with thousands of wild men running through them, it was the stuff of nightmares. The silence was broken by the cries of the Wyldermen, whoops and hollers that mimicked woodland animals: barking, snarling and screeching as they ran ever closer to Brackenholme. Armed with spears and axes, clubs and daggers, shortbows and blowpipes, their weaponry was handmade yet deadly. Some wore headdresses, feathers fluttering as they surged towards Brackenholme, skulls and bones rattling around their throats.

  The tall walls of the city rose up before Trent as he put distance between himself and the wild men. The gates ahead were closed, barring his entrance, and with rising dread he realized he was trapped in the meadows with the pursuing Wylderman horde.

  ‘The gate!’ he shouted as Storm pounded along the Dymling Road, disappearing into the shadows around the mighty gatehouse’s base. The horse began to slip and slide through the clay, hooves ploughing up muddy furrows as Trent reined her in. He guided Storm alongside the giant doors, hammering the timber with his fist.

  ‘For Brenn’s sake!’ he cried, looking back into the meadows, the Wyldermen drawing ever closer. ‘Open the gate!’

  In answer to his screams, the heavy mechanisms suddenly ground into life. Whatever barred the gates from within was suddenly hauled back, wood scraping against wood as the doors swung outwards. Trent tugged at Storm’s reins, and the horse whinnied nervously as she stepped clear of the enormous portal. Once the gap was wide enough, he urged his mount through.

  ‘Shut the gates!’ he called up to the guard tower. ‘I’m inside!’

  He glanced back and saw with horror that the gates continued their slow, mechanical motion, inexorably widening.

  ‘The gates!’ Trent screamed at the top of his lungs. ‘You’re under attack! Close them!’

  It was at that moment that he caught sight of the pair of dead Greencapes lying in the shadows at the base of one of the towers. In the next instant the first wave of Wyldermen ran through the open gates and the bloody battle for Brackenholme began.

  3

  The Hungry Child

  The Beast of Bast lounged in his chair, whispering into Lord Flint’s ear as Hector performed before him. The body of the slain Sturmish scout lay spread-eagled on the frozen floor of the tent, the rugs and furniture having been cleared away to allow the young Boarlord room to work. Candles provided the only light in the Catlord’s grand chamber, the greatest illumination coming from the burning black stick of wax that Hector clutched in his right hand. A brimstone circle surrounded the corpse, with arcane symbols etched through the yellow powder. It became clear to Hector that Onyx was a hard man to impress, and the Panther paid the young magister little attention while he performed his rituals.

  See how he talks while you work, brother? whispered the Vincent-vile. He mocks you!

  There was no denying it: by conversing with the Crowlord while Hector carried out his necromancy, the Werepanther was showing great disrespect. Flint added to the uncomfortable atmosphere, sniggering along with the Bastian’s banter, perhaps hoping the magister would make an error. Hector tried not to be distracted, whispering his incantations, over and over, channelling the dark magick that would bring forth the answers he sought. No doubt Onyx was trying to unsettle and belittle him; to make him feel that he had to impress. Whether the Catlord’s lack of interest in Hector’s work was feigned or genuine, the Boarlord didn’t care. The Beast of Bast would pay attention soon enough.

  Hector tipped the spluttering black candle,
allowing its dark liquid to pour into the palm of his withered left hand. The smell of smouldering flesh assailed his nostrils as he curled his knuckles into a ball, the molten wax oozing between his fingers and splattering the cold floor. He stopped chanting suddenly, striking the ground three times with his smoking mummified fist. The walls of the tent clapped, as a sudden gust of wind found its way through the chamber, extinguishing the candles instantly, all but the one that Hector still held in his grasp.

  Onyx and Flint fell silent, and the Pantherlord sat upright in his wooden seat, craning his neck to see past the magister crouching at his feet. The Crowlord smacked his lips, his mouth suddenly parched as he followed the gaze of Onyx towards the flickering flame in Hector’s hand.

  ‘Rise, creature, and answer to your master’s bidding,’ commanded Hector, allowing a chuckle to escape his throat.

  That piqued their interest!

  Gradually, the dead Sturmlander began to move. The movement started in the scout’s feet, the toes of the man’s boots trembling as a shudder ran through the corpse. Its fingers twitched, playing out an irregular rhythm as the limbs spasmed. Slowly, the body sat upright, as if pulled on invisible strings. Hector’s black candle lit up the man’s pale slack face, the cheeks already sagging, the poor fool having bled to death through the throat. The corpse’s eyes flashed open in an instant, startling even Hector, who saw the familiar pale-blue fires burning within.

  Behind, Hector heard the gasps of Onyx and Flint, and their affectation of nonchalance died as fast as the candle flames that had illuminated the tent. Now they were attentive, watching the magister as he rose from the ground. He opened his wax-drenched black hand and flexed his palm.

  ‘Rise,’ repeated Hector. Again the corpse moved, drawn to its feet by Hector’s will, standing unsteadily like a newborn lamb.