Good, thought Drew. Let them fight each other!
‘Cease!’ came the order from deep within the body of the attacking force, and the enemy ranks immediately halted their skirmish.
The black-armoured figure of Vorjavik emerged from his personal guard below, wearing a long bearskin cloak. While Vankaskan had been sickly and Vanmorten rangy, the war marshal was a prize specimen of a therian warrior. His breastplate alone could have housed two men, his broad, stocky frame filling the steel to the full. A war mattock swung from his hip, the head of the hammer studded with bolts of shining silver.
‘Well, well, well. It’s been a while, boy!’ snarled the Rat, gurgling with laughter. ‘We all thought you dead. If I couldn’t see you with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it: the Werewolf, coming to aid the Stags in their last days, wielding his old man’s white sword. Wait until they hear about this back in Highcliff.’
Drew thought back to the last time he’d seen Vorjavik, when he’d doused the Wererat’s brother Vanmorten in Spyr Oil before setting him alight. The other members of the Rat King had watched through the flames, desperate to slay the son of Wergar in revenge.
The men on the nearest walkway parted as the Ratlord walked up its length. The elite warriors of Vermire accompanied him, with the Crowlord Scree a step behind, his head bobbing anxiously on seeing Drew’s prisoner.
‘Put my father down, Wolf!’ Scree commanded. ‘He’s a sickly old man: how dare you steal him from his deathbed?’
‘Come no closer,’ called Drew, wary of the advancing Ratlord and his cronies. ‘This old Crow may not be far from his deathbed, but I can hasten his journey with one thrust of my blade!’
As Reinhardt and Siegfried stood beside Drew, the war marshal of the Lion’s army continued his march towards the top of the ramp.
‘What are you doing, Vorjavik?’ hissed Scree loudly, panic evident in his voice. ‘He has my father!’
‘Don’t underestimate what I’m capable of, Vorjavik!’ shouted Drew, jabbing the blade deeper between the Crowlord’s ribs. Croke choked, arching his gnarled back into his captor, muscles beginning to ripple beneath his thin robes. Drew was unsure how much longer he could hold on to Croke; the feisty avianthrope was in danger of changing at any moment, no longer fearful of the youth’s threats. All eyes were on the Wolflord: Crows, Stags, the Rat, every soldier within his gaze.
More scuffles were breaking out beyond the walls. The differences between the Vermirians and the men of Riven were coming to a head as they were confronted by their lords bickering before them.
‘He’s not bluffing, Ratlord,’ said Scree, taking hold of the war marshal as Vorjavik threatened to step on to the battlements. Scree’s brothers had taken to the air, swooping overhead, enraged by their father’s predicament. Of Red Rufus, there was no sign.
The Ratlord turned, his face twisted in a look of contempt.
‘Get your filthy talons off my shoulder, you foolish bird. I command these forces. Prince Lucas named me war marshal of his army, and that includes this ragtag rabble you’ve brought down from the mountains. What happens next is my decision.’ He prodded the Crow with a dirty fat finger. ‘Know your place, Crow.’
Scree unhanded the Ratlord, his face draining of colour as the war marshal stepped on to the wall top.
With a rip, the rope that had held Count Croke’s arms to his sides tore free as the Werecrow’s expanding chest pushed the hemp to breaking point. Drew kept a tight hold, letting the Wolf in, his own muscles growing as his chokehold on the Crow increased. A filthy black beak tore free from Croke’s mouth, nose and jaw elongating as he sheared the gag in two. His withered wings broke free, flapping ineffectually as he struggled in the Wolf’s embrace.
Croke’s wheezing scream escaped from his constricted throat. ‘Kill them! Kill them all!’
Vorjavik and Scree stopped on the walls. The Vermirian Guard surrounded them, awaiting the war marshal’s orders.
‘But, Father,’ shouted Scree, ‘the Wolf! He’ll kill you!’
Drew squeezed, trying to cut off Croke’s airways, but the tyrant’s voice still tore through.
‘He won’t do it! He hasn’t the stomach!’
He’s right, thought Drew, the blade’s handle growing slick in his grasp as his sweating hand betrayed him. I can’t do this. I can’t kill him …
‘Are you sure?’ Scree said, a nervous caw of laughter in his voice.
‘This talk is getting us nowhere!’ said Vorjavik, tiring of the stalemate. ‘You’re a fool for getting yourself caught in the first place, Croke. Be it upon your own head if you’re wrong, but this pup isn’t going to stop me from taking Stormdale …’ He raised a clawed hand to the sky, the change beginning to grip the Wererat as he prepared to give the signal to attack.
The sharp twang of a shortbow came first, before the war marshal could sound the order. A hooded, black-cloaked Vermirian archer let loose his silver arrow from the muddy ground in front of the gatehouse, lowering his bow as the missile sailed straight in the air. Those who didn’t see the archer’s attack heard the arrow as it whistled through the bleak sky towards the top of the gatehouse. The warriors of Riven and Vermire watched as the silver projectile found its target with a wet snap.
Lord Croke, the Werecrow of the Barebones, went limp in Drew’s arm, the arrow buried deep within his heart. The silence was deafening for the briefest of moments, before the whole of Stormdale erupted to the sound of battle.
But this was not the battle that the weary defenders of Stormdale had expected just moments earlier. Drew lowered Croke’s body to the ground as he watched the warriors of Riven charge into the Vermirian guard, comrades becoming enemies as they turned on one another. Magister Siegfried turned to look at Drew, and the message from one to another was clear.
There is yet hope.
5
The Sharpest Teeth
The sound of feet pounding timber rattled round Brackenholme Hall. Greencapes ran along the walkways through the Great Oak’s boughs, the ancient tree alive with panicked soldiers and courtiers. Whitley stood to one side as a branch of the court guard raced towards one of the caged lifts that would deliver them to the ground far below. The scout grabbed at their captain as they rushed by.
‘Where are you going? We cannot leave Duchess Rainier undefended!’
‘My lady,’ said the officer, recognizing the Bearlady beneath the green cloak of the Woodland Watch. ‘Four of our finest knights remain in the hall with your mother, under strict orders to let no one pass. Lady Gretchen is with her also, along with the rest of the court. With respect, I need to go below: the city’s overrun with Wyldermen, and we need every able body down there protecting our people.’
He was correct, of course. Whitley’s interjection was a purely selfish one. The Great Oak was the safest place for her mother and Gretchen; so long as the lifts were defended no force could invade Brackenholme Hall. The city’s inhabitants were the ones most at risk, with the Garrison Tree short-handed ever since the majority of the Woodland Watch’s Greencloaks had ridden west with her father on their ill-fated journey to Highcliff months previously. She let go of the man, bowing to him briefly.
‘My apologies, Captain. Please, hurry on your way.’
Whitley followed the men as they dashed into the cage, the door clattering shut as it began its descent. She leaned over the balcony to watch the lift disappear below and her heart froze. The buildings of Brackenholme burned, and tiny figures scuttled through the streets like ants. From this height and in such poor light it was impossible to differentiate invader from civilian as the ghastly scene played out far away from the branches of the Great Oak. But one thing was very clear. The city was overrun: the Wyldermen had taken it.
Storm snorted hard as she dipped her head, and Trent urged her to charge along the Dymling Road, into the heart of the madness and mayhem. Townsfolk ran screaming through the street, chased down by packs of whooping, berserk Wyldermen. Here and there a group of soldi
ers held the wild men back, the Woodland Watch fighting beside the city’s Greencapes, but the pockets of resistance were few and far between. The attack had been perfectly executed by the invaders who had caught the city asleep.
Trent had never heard of such numbers of Wyldermen gathering before. Growing up on the Cold Coast, there were occasional sightings along the edge of the Dyrewood, but the wild men were known to be tribal, living in small groups and fiercely defensive of individual territories. Trent could see differences between the Wyldermen now, the more he observed them. The blue woad or white chalk markings, the headdresses and choice of weapons: this was an army made up of many tribes, united in their attack on Brackenholme. Another Wylderman closed on him with an axe, a woman this time. He deflected her attack with a sharp kick that sent her reeling backwards.
Trent looked ahead just as a longsword caught him square in the chest. Blind luck played its part, as only the flat of the blade struck him; he might otherwise have been cut in two. The force knocked him clean out of his saddle and down on to the road with a crunch, as Storm ran on into the smoke and was lost from sight. Trent rolled over as the sword hit the ground where he lay, scrambling clear as a Greencloak chopped down again.
‘What are you doing? I’m on your side!’ screamed Trent.
‘You’re Lionguard! You’re with them!’ shouted the soldier, switching his attack to a low swing now. Trent lifted the Wolfshead blade, parrying the blow before it connected with his stomach.
The Redcloak! You fool, Trent! There it was, its hem trailing in the mud beneath him, a big, red target that marked him as an enemy. He’d needed it as protection against the winter weather when he’d escaped Lord Frost’s encampment, but it was a foolish error not to have removed it upon entering Brackenholme. He just hoped it wasn’t going to be a grave one.
‘I’m not with the Lionguard!’ said Trent, scrambling clear of the next blow.
‘Then you’ve a fool’s taste in attire!’ replied the man, raising his sword to strike.
Trent threw the Wolfshead blade, the sword flying from his hand. The Greencloak’s eyes widened as it sailed towards him, point first, then disappeared past him.
‘Missed!’ snarled the soldier.
‘No I didn’t,’ said Trent.
The sound of a body hitting the ground behind him made the Greencloak glance over his shoulder. A Wylderman lay slumped in the mud, axe in hand, the Wolfshead blade rising out of his chest like a lance.
The soldier looked at the Wolf’s head on the pommel, then back at Trent. ‘Redcloak aside, thank you.’ He reached out a hand, hauling the outrider to his feet. Trent looked round for Storm. He whistled shrilly, his signal for the mount to return.
‘Your horse? That’ll be long gone,’ said the man, as Trent withdrew his sword from the corpse. Judging by the insignia on the Greencloak’s leather breastplate, he was a captain.
‘Your gates were opened from within,’ said Trent, breathing hard. ‘You’ve a traitor in your city.’
The Greencloak nodded grimly, absorbing the information.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘We must regroup. The streets are no longer safe: our only hope is to get the survivors to the Great Trees.’
‘Great Trees?’ Trent asked, as they ran down the Dymling Road between the raging fires and banks of smoke.
‘Never visited Brackenholme then?’ said the captain, as they approached a dozen battered-looking defenders beside an enormous fountain. A handful of Romari stood among them, one big, bald brute with a corked wineskin dangling from his neck wielding an axe and torch. Beside him was a wiry old man who carried a bloodied rapier. The men in green immediately saluted Trent’s companion, looking uneasily at the Redcloak outrider.
‘What news?’ asked the captain.
‘We’ve got as many civilians into the Oaks as possible, Captain Harker. Many have fled straight to the Garrison Tree, since the Black Oak holds a few hundred. Others have taken to the White Oak, where the clerics and healers are tending their wounds. In each case, the gates have been closed, and will not be opened under any circumstances. The other two Oaks have their share of survivors too. That just leaves the Great Oak, where Lady Gretchen and Lady Whitley remain alongside Duchess Rainier.’
‘Gretchen and Whitley,’ Trent said quickly, drawing more fierce looks from the Greencloaks with his informal references. ‘I was sent to warn them. They travel in the company of Baba Korga, at least a woman they believe is Baba Korga.’
The Romari with the rapier chimed in. ‘What do you mean, believe? Baba Korga lodges in Brackenholme Hall presently, as a guest of the duchess.’
‘I met with a council of your wise women, sir. Korga’s dead, slain some time ago by the Wyldermen.’ He turned to Harker. ‘Whoever’s been travelling with the Wereladies … she’s no Baba.’
Harker glanced at the wiry old man, as looks of grave concern passed between them.
‘On no account is anyone to harm this man,’ said the captain, indicating Trent with a nod of his head. ‘He’s with us. For the time being,’ he added with a glower.
Harker set off fast along another avenue that led away from the Dymling Road towards the Great Oak. As the men ran, Trent fell in among them, his heart pounding as he joined his old enemies for the fight.
By the time they reached the foot of the Great Oak it was alive with fighting. A valiant crowd of Greencapes and Greencloaks held their position, desperately trying to protect the lifts that carried passengers to Brackenholme Hall. A mass of mud-covered Wyldermen swarmed over them, spears, axes and knives raised as they bore down on the men of the Woodland Realm.
Harker led the charge, his longsword tearing into the backs of the Wyldermen as he took a straight route towards the lifts. His men followed quickly behind him, falling into an attack formation, driving an emerald wedge through the enemy. Soon the Greencloaks were toe to toe with the invaders, trading blows in a packed melee.
Trent felt a sudden surge as the Greencloaks pushed forward, steady steps taking them nearer to their comrades. The enemy’s ranks broke momentarily, allowing Harker to drive through. A Greencloak went down in front of Trent, cutting off his path through the mob. He could feel himself being pulled away from Brackenholme’s defenders, as if drawn out to the ocean by a deadly current.
The big Romari who’d accompanied them suddenly stepped into the space Trent had vacated, his giant axe scything out. Trent ducked as it tore through the Wyldermen around him, leaving severed hands and heads in its wake. The wiry Romari who stayed close to the axe man reached down, hauling Trent to his feet.
‘Keep moving, lad,’ he said, pushing Trent between them.
The Wyldermen closed in behind them, swallowing their path like a great serpent devouring its prey. Trent lurched after the Romari, falling into the thinned ranks of Greencloaks who remained guarding the wicker lift above them. The bodies of slain Greencloaks and Wyldermen littered the floor around the base of the tree, providing a grisly obstacle course. The tree trunk was perhaps fifty feet across, with cracked bark rippling across its surface. Only thirty defenders remained now, including those Greencloaks and Romari who had survived the charge led by Harker: hundreds of wild men pushed home their advantage, tasting victory with every blow.
‘Into the cage, Harker!’ said the wiry Romari as he darted forward, rapier flashing.
‘I won’t leave anyone down here, Stirga!’ shouted the captain, sending another Wylderman to the ground.
‘The cage!’ yelled Stirga, shoving Trent into the wicker lift. The outrider staggered in, quickly followed by half a dozen Greencloaks as the others drew back, retreating from the enemy. A horn hung from the roof of the cage, and the thickest rope Trent had ever seen was connected through the roof, disappearing into the darkness overhead.
Harker stepped back alongside Stirga, as the Greencloaks squeezed into the lift behind them. When no more could fit they clambered on to the roof, hauling one another to safety. Only the big Romari with the axe and torch still
fought the Wyldermen, using the piles of corpses as a breakwater against the tide of evil.
As Harker and Stirga clambered on to the cage walls, the giant swung his axe through the crowd, briefly scattering his opponents. Snatching at the wineskin around his neck, he quickly uncorked it, throwing its contents over the dead bodies at his feet. He took a swift gulp from the spout, before raising the torch to his mouth. A bright yellow fireball erupted, swirling over the heads of the Wyldermen, who cowered away from the inferno. Strapping his axe to his back, he tossed the torch on to the bodies, and with a loud whoosh they went up in flames.
Harker reached into the cage, snatching the horn and blowing with all his might. Trent trembled at the noise, and the lift immediately shuddered into life. The big Romari leapt as the cage started its ascent, leaving the flames and Wyldermen below him. Spears whistled through the air, rattling against the wall grilles, the odd one finding its way through the bars and hitting a target. Darts flew up, the deadly needles catching three of the lift’s occupants and sending them slumping to the cage floor.
A Greencloak tumbled from the roof, a spear through his side, catching one of his comrades who clung to the outside. The two fell into the chaos below. Trent looked down, catching sight of the Romari giant holding on to the bars of the cage floor for dear life. He dropped to his knees, thrusting his arms through the bars and locking them round the man’s wrists. If the Romari let go, he’d probably tear Trent’s arms from their sockets. The bald axe-man stared up at the boy, his face contorting with the strain, the ground already far beneath him. Trent gripped tighter, fingers digging into the Romari’s flesh.
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 14
