The dead Sturmlander’s head turned one way and then the other, every movement clumsy, as it jerked unnaturally. The blue eyes narrowed momentarily as it caught sight of the Vincent-vile, hissing as a cat might when facing a dog. Finally its gaze landed upon Hector. Its mouth swung open, tongue and teeth slick with dark blood that dribbled down its jaw, spattering its soiled cloak and armour.
‘Where … am … I?’ the corpse whispered, its voice rasping as the words found their way through its punctured throat.
Hector took a moment to examine the Sturmlander: a young man, not much older than the Boarlord. Somebody’s son – perhaps even a husband – with his life ahead of him until the Skirmisher’s arrow had found his neck. War was an ugly business, and he bore this soul no malice, regardless of which side the scout had fought for. Communing could be an enjoyable affair for the magister. There were some souls that he felt warranted his attention, those who had wronged Hector in their lives like Vankaskan or Vega, but this dead northman was not one of those. He would ask what questions he needed of this broken body and send the poor spirit on its way.
‘Do not fear,’ said Hector, managing a smile. ‘You’re in no danger. I simply have some questions that I’d have you answer. Then you may depart, and return to the long sleep.’
‘The long … sleep?’ gasped the corpse, its burning blue eyes suddenly widening.
‘Indeed,’ sighed the magister with a sad shrug of his shoulders. The corpse’s jaw trembled, its lips wobbling as if it might burst into tears. Hector turned and looked back at Onyx, his look of sympathy replaced by a cold, confident glare. ‘You had questions, my lord?’
Onyx stepped forward, Flint close behind, the Panther cocking his head as he studied the corpse. It stared back, dipping its shoulder and mimicking his movements like a ghastly mirror. ‘Fascinating,’ said the Catlord, his deep voice unnervingly quiet.
Hector watched the three for a moment, Werelords and ghoul staring at one another, trying to keep his pride hidden. By the flickering candlelight, he spied a sheen of sweat glistening on Flint’s brow, the Crow unable to take his eyes off the grotesque risen scout.
They won’t doubt you again, brother, giggled the vile.
‘What would you have me ask him?’ said Hector, leaning forward and whispering in Onyx’s ear.
The Werepanther stirred from his trance, regaining the composure to direct his words back to the magister, his gaze still fixed on the corpse.
‘How many were with him?’
Hector turned to the soldier, passing the question on. ‘How many accompanied you in your scouting party?’
The dead Sturmlander smacked his lips, his eyes returning to the magister. ‘Three more scouts. Hidden. Return to camp. Inform Duke Henrik.’
Onyx snarled, his growl rising as he bared his teeth. Hector spied that the Catlord’s canines were larger than they had been earlier, and gnashed against one another in his broad menacing mouth.
‘Then the White Bear will have a fair idea of our number,’ said Flint.
‘Don’t you think I know that, Crow?’ said the Panther, turning to glare at the black-haired avianthrope.
‘Do you have more questions, my lord?’ asked Hector.
‘Indeed I do, magister,’ replied the Catlord as he proceeded to direct the young Boar’s interrogation of the corpse.
Initial questions established the number and make-up of the Sturmish army, where on the Whitepeaks they were positioned and what awaited the Bastian forces once they travelled further into the mountains. The corpse revealed all it had known in life, spelling out the exact numbers of Duke Henrik’s army, and any weaknesses that existed in their defences. There was nothing that could be exploited, simply fewer men in certain points through the mountains, as the White Bear had taken nothing for granted. The only promising morsel of information was the news that Henrik had brought virtually his entire army out of Icegarden, assembling them on the slopes of the Whitepeaks. Only a skeletal force remained in the city, with no defence of the Sturmish capital to the north. It was the missing piece to Hector’s puzzle, confirming that his own plan was the correct course of action for their group.
‘Don’t you see?’ said Hector, his eyes wild with promise. ‘This is perfect! With nobody guarding the city, once I get through their lines there is nothing to stop me. The city is unguarded. It’s mine for the taking!’
‘Ours for the taking, Lord Blackhand,’ corrected Flint, a thick black eyebrow arching up his crooked face as he watched the excited Boarlord. Onyx ignored the two Werelords, his attention still captured by the shambling corpse within the circle of sulphurous powder, his face filled with dark wonder.
‘Of course, my lord,’ said Hector, waving his withered hand in the air by way of an apology. ‘A slip of the tongue, that’s all. Icegarden shall be ours once I enter its white walls.’
‘How exactly do you intend to bring down the walls from within, though? I could fly in myself and do the deed if it were a simple one-man job. There’s still a force within the city – a garrison holding a fair-size troop of soldiers by all accounts. Plus there’s a militia, according to our dead friend here. Your Boarguard number how many? Eight? Hardly an army, Lord Magister, is it?’
‘Really, Lord Flint,’ said Hector, smiling. ‘You should let me worry about my Boarguard. You underestimate their ability – and their number – at your peril.’
The Crowlord sneered, about to say something more before Onyx cut him off.
‘Can this creature feel pain?’ asked the Werepanther, his eyes narrowing as he studied the corpse.
Hector was taken aback by the unexpected question. ‘It has the ability to feel pain in an ethereal sense, my lord, but its physical form is just a shell. I think the body is beyond pain as you or I would understand it.’
‘So it’s harmless?’
‘Far from it, sire. The risen dead are all dangerous. That said, communing with Children of the Blue Flame under these conditions within the circle of brimstone, provides no danger to a magister.’ Hector smacked his lips, knowing where the conversation was leading. His thoughts flew back to the Wyrmwood long ago, when he and Drew had faced the dead Wylderman shaman and the communing had gone terribly, awfully wrong. He could taste bile in his throat when he recalled the memory.
‘We have the answers we need from this one, my lord,’ continued the magister, uncomfortable with the Catlord’s fascination with the corpse. Hector’s feelings about the Sturmlander hadn’t changed: the man had been a simple soldier, caught up in a terrible conflict. He wasn’t responsible for anything in the grand scheme of things. He was a pawn in the Werelords’ grand game of chess, an insignificant innocent like so many humans. Hector took no pleasure from controlling one so simple.
‘I have fought many beasts down the years, Blackhand,’ said the Werepanther. ‘But nothing as unnatural as one of these … “children”, as you call them.’
‘Perhaps we could just send him on his way? The brimstone and warding symbols keep the child’s … appetite under control.’
‘And if the circle should be broken?’ said Onyx, the Beast of Bast already seeing where the magister was heading.
‘Then you release the child,’ said Hector, his voice catching in his throat.
‘Is that such a bad thing?’ asked Flint, following the conversation from a distance.
Hector turned to the Crow, away from Onyx and the dead Sturmlander. ‘The Children of the Blue Flame aren’t so different from normal humans. They need discipline, control; they need to know their place. And that’s where I, as a magister, can help. I can command them. But at the end of the day, they still have base desires. They still need to feed.’
The Boarlord turned back just as Onyx kicked the brimstone circle with his boot, sending a billowing amber cloud into the air. Instantly, the dead Sturmlander lurched forward, its expression switching from slack-jawed obedience to rabid hunger, its blue eyes burning with a fresher fire.
‘No!’ cried
Hector as Flint stumbled back, away from the flailing corpse. The Boarlord threw his black hand forward, about to call the creature back, to prevent it from attacking the Catlord, but Onyx was fast.
The Werepanther was moving before Hector could even think to command the corpse, the transformation having taken place in a single heartbeat. The magister’s candle illuminated the dark giant who stood before him, and the sight of the shifted felinthrope made the stick of black wax shake in his hand. Onyx caught the dead Sturmlander around the jaw, holding him up in the air, the scout’s legs kicking feebly at thin air. The Catlord’s enormous hand cradled the corpse’s skull as a normal man might hold a goblet. The ghoul’s hands scraped at the surface of Onyx’s shining muscled arm, the skin reflecting shades of purple by candlelight as the ravenous cadaver gnashed its jaws, desperate to taste Bastian flesh.
Hector wasn’t alone in his discomfort: even the Vincent-vile was sickened by the Werepanther’s antics. He felt the vile coiling around his throat, hugging his perspiring flesh, willing Hector to protect him from the Beast of Bast. Perhaps he fears the same fate, thought Hector, staring at Onyx with grim wonder as the monstrous Catlord brought the moaning, groaning corpse closer to his huge, feline face. Here is a living therian who’s unafraid of the dead, who finds a ghoul fascinating rather than fearful. What might he make of a vile, should he find a way to grasp one?
Tiring of the contest, the Werepanther lifted the dead Sturmlander higher towards the roof of the tent. Onyx shook the clawing, kicking body for a moment, its limbs jangling uncontrollably, then unleashed a bloodcurdling roar. Hector staggered backwards, bumping into Flint, as the Catlord squeezed his mighty clawed hand into a fist. A sickening, wet crunch sounded a moment before the headless corpse tumbled to the floor, the fight gone from the Sturmlander’s body once and for all.
Hector turned away from the Catlord as Flint disappeared through the canvas doors of the tent. He heard the Werecrow hail Captain Stephan, the commander of the Skirmishers, who was keen to be of use. Little does the fool know of the true purpose of his mission. Hector tossed his vials, bottles and belongings back into his case, his usual care thrown to the wind as his heart thundered in his chest. He glanced back.
Lord Onyx, the Beast of Bast, stood in the glow of Hector’s candlelight. The young magister held the communing candle in both hands, gripping it in pale and dark knuckles as he fought to hold his nerve before the terrifying felinthrope.
‘You have the information you need, Blackhand. You have your bait, your Boarguard and your plan. So tell me …’ The Werepanther leaned forward, stooping until his face was in line with the Boarlord’s. ‘Why are you still here?’
4
Endgame
While the moon threatened to break through the storm clouds overhead, rain and arrows showered down over Stormdale. War Marshal Vorjavik might have expected the Stags’ people to surrender, once their outer walls were breached. With the defences in ruins and the city on fire, any other force crippled by injury and overwhelmed would have sought terms with the enemy and pleaded for clemency. Instead, the men and women of the Staglord’s city fought back.
As Vorjavik and his Crowlord general, Scree, directed their forces against the walls – probing, prodding, searching for weaknesses – they were met every time with volleys of arrows, forcing them back, breaking their push for the citadel. The survivors weren’t foolish; they knew the Ratlord would show no mercy. There were no terms Vorjavik would consider, not after the butchery he’d carried out in Highwater. But Stormdale would yield to nobody: its people would fight to the last.
The besieged Werelords kept their place on the battlements, standing shoulder to shoulder with their people. Reinhardt and the four remaining Staglords of the Barebones kept moving and talking, urging the defenders to stay strong and dig in deep. None of the Stags would leave the ramparts, putting the safety of the city’s inhabitants before their own. Inside the walls, children scampered through the courtyard, reclaiming enemy arrows that had found their way into the keep and survived intact, handing them back to the defenders, whether they were steel or silver.
Lord Scree’s siblings took to the air, riding the smoke and rain-filled sky, swooping over the castle. A Greycloak archer was positioned on every tower turret, watching the skies, their sole duty to seek out the Werecrows who attacked from above. The Hawklord, Red Rufus, joined them in the sky, chasing them away as they harried and mobbed him, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. When the Crowlords got too close, they found their wings clipped, but not before they had dealt out death and wreaked havoc on the defences. Rocks and flasks of burning oil crashed down indiscriminately, shattering and exploding everywhere.
Drew stood on the summit of the Lady’s Tower, high above the castle, looking down at the defenders on the walls. Magister Siegfried was at his side, the old man leaning hard on his staff, weary with worry and despair. Immediately beyond the castle’s outer wall the dark water of the moat shimmered, its surface broken by masonry, weapons and bodies crashing down.
‘My lord, the rubble at the city gates is clear now: look!’ said Siegfried.
Drew followed the magister’s bony finger as it pointed towards Stormdale’s main avenue. The collapsed walls of the gatehouse that Drew had defended the previous night had until now blocked the passage of Vorjavik’s war machines. But the debris had been cleared away, and Drew’s heart sank as the first of the enemy catapults was hauled into the city.
‘I hope Reinhardt sees this,’ said Drew. ‘Those siege engines decimated the defences of the city walls. What chance will the castle have? The sight of catapults trundling into the city could break our people’s resolve. Their morale’s already fragile. He needs to speak to inspire them!’
‘Lord Reinhardt can inspire the most craven fool, but I fear you expect him to work miracles. They’ve fought valiantly, even as their loved ones have fallen around them,’ said the magister sadly. ‘These are farmers, bakers and grocers; half-blind old men and terrified women. They’re not warriors.’
Drew knew how they felt. He may have been a therianthrope, and a mighty one at that, but the boy in him was exhausted and as fearful as anyone in the castle. Is this all my fault? This cursed war, all the death and destruction that’s stricken Lyssia? He tried to imagine what the father and mother who raised him, Mack and Tilly Ferran, might have done in this situation, faced by unimaginable odds. He tried to listen to his heart, searching for answers, but the only sound he heard was the battle’s din.
‘My lord,’ said Siegfried, turning to Drew. ‘I fear we’re approaching the endgame.’
Drew nodded, stirred from his reverie by the old magister’s words.
‘The guards,’ Drew said. ‘Tell them to fetch Croke. Have them meet me on the wall.’
By the time Drew arrived on the battlements, the first catapult was in position, launching its boulders at Stormdale’s ancient castle. The screams of those who sheltered in the keep, too frail or young to fight, could be heard within. The defenders tried in vain to slow the progress of the trebuchet teams, but ranks of giant shields protected the engineers of Riven as they loaded their deadly missiles.
Every defensive position on the walls was under duress, as Vorjavik’s army swarmed round the moat. The engineers hadn’t been idle while the path for their war machines was cleared. The siege towers had been dismantled and transformed into makeshift platforms that could span the moat and reach the keep’s outer walls. As the walkways reached out over the clogged water, the men of Riven hauled back on the attached ropes, raising them up as they pushed forward. The strongest remaining Greycloaks gathered on the battlements, clad in platemail, waiting for the enemy to come. Finally the engineers let the ropes loose, and the end of each platform rattled down on to the ramparts. The warriors of Riven poured forward, racing up the wooden slopes, with the Vermirian elite guard close behind.
As the two forces engaged, Drew caught sight of Magister Siegfried and four Greycloaks hurrying across
the courtyard, the bound Lord of Riven in their grasp. Reinhardt snatched the Crow from them, dragging him up the steps of the gatehouse to where Drew awaited. The young Wolflord looked down the wall in each direction, his stomach heaving as he saw the greater number of enemy soldiers pushing the defenders back. Many fell into the moat, pushed off the walkways by their comrades or dropped by a well-placed arrow, but each time another warrior stepped into his place. The surviving Staglords joined the fray at every point where the Crow’s men spilled on to the battlements, but there were too many; the odds were stacked heavily against them. The Greycloaks were falling, the enemy was winning. Time to roll the bones.
‘I have him!’ cried Reinhardt, staggering up to Drew on his stiff leg, thrusting the gagged Crowlord forward. Croke’s hate-filled eyes narrowed as he glared at Drew. The young Wolf took him by the shoulder, nodding his thanks to the Stag.
‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Reinhardt.
‘What choice do we have?’
With that, Drew stepped up on to the grey rock of the wall’s edge, Lord Croke of Riven held round the throat in the crook of his left arm, Moonbrand brandished in his right.
‘Vorjavik!’ roared Drew at the assembled host from Riven and Vermire. ‘I’ve something you may want to see!’
The black-cloaked archers of Vermire gathered before the moat, cowls raised over their heads, training their bows and silver arrows on the Wolflord. Drew dug the enchanted white sword into the Crow’s torso, until the blade edge threatened to separate cloth and flesh at any moment. He could hear Croke snarling, trying to work the gag free from his mouth. Drew brought his lips to the Crow’s ear.
‘Don’t even think of changing, my lord,’ he whispered menacingly, hopeful the Crow believed every word he said. ‘It would be my pleasure to let Moonbrand find a way between your scrawny ribs.’
The fighting ceased suddenly as the men of Riven disengaged with the Greycloaks at the sight of their master held captive by the Wolf. Lord Croke had been left behind in their mountain home, his long years and failing health making him unfit for travel. Yet now he stood before them, at the Wolflord’s mercy. The Vermirian soldiers at their backs pushed forward, wanting to continue the assault regardless of who was held hostage. Fights and scuffles broke out along the walkways as the Crows and the Rats traded blows, and a handful of former comrades tumbled from the bridges.
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 13
