‘Just hold on,’ he panted, through gritted teeth. ‘Just hold on …’
6
The Best of Enemies
In the immediate aftermath of Lord Croke’s demise, the soldiers of the Rat and Crows launched into one another, their simmering resentment boiling over into all-out battle. In an instant, the Staglords’ fortunes turned, that one rogue arrow splitting the enemy into two warring factions. The Greycloaks were momentarily astonished before seizing the initiative. Baron Hoffman, the oldest Staglord, led a charge into the enemies along the battlements, transforming with each swing of his greatsword. The handful of men who followed, knights of Stormdale and Highwater, rained sword blows down on the invaders, pushing them back down the siege engine bridge.
Not all the enemy were vanquished in the charge. Vorjavik, Scree and a dozen of the Vermirian Guard had remained on the walls, having already advanced to where Croke had been slain. Scree lunged at the Ratlord, but the war marshal turned just in time to deflect the Crowlord’s long silver dagger. The Rat barged Scree, sending him spinning over the wall’s edge, changing as he fell. With a sudden burst his cloak tore free, black wings arcing from his back as he plummeted, then swooped up to join his brothers overhead.
Vorjavik and his bodyguard found themselves where they wanted to be, deep within the castle’s heart, but not in the unassailable position they had planned. As the Werecrows switched to their bows, the ramparts were peppered with silver-headed arrows while the Vermirians dashed for cover – straight down the wall’s steps towards the keep. Their flight didn’t go unnoticed.
‘For Stormdale!’ Reinhardt shouted, antlers emerging from his brow as he leapt down the gatehouse steps after the Vermirians. Drew directed the attacks of the bowmen skywards, while the Werecrows were distracted by the Blackcloaks who dashed across the courtyard. Two of the Crowlords tumbled, their bodies peppered with arrows. The steel-headed arrows wouldn’t kill them, but the defenders in the courtyard held nothing back. The injured avianthropes squawked and screamed as old men, women and wounded warriors attacked them with picks, swords, shovels and staffs. None was silvered, but the relentless onslaught eventually took their lives.
Drew bounded down the steps, chasing Reinhardt and his knights as they pursued Vorjavik and his men into the keep, the Greys and Blacks swiftly engaging one another. The Vermirians weren’t standard foot soldiers, like those of Riven. These were Vorjavik’s personal guard, each one a seasoned campaigner who had served Leopold down the years. Wearing the same black armour as their master, they wielded silver-blessed swords with ruthless efficiency. They were an enemy the Werelords couldn’t take lightly, and one false step would most certainly lead to death.
With the throne room transformed into a battlefield, every Werelord in the chamber had shifted. The Staglord, Reinhardt, towered over all of them, his long, curved antlers stabbing at the Vermirians while his sword clanged off their breastplates. The Wererat, Vorjavik, was as big as Duke Bergan when changed, his oily, shaggy pelt invisible beneath the sheets of plate armour. His long pink tail whipped and lashed at the Greycloaks, yanking the legs out from under his enemies and flinging civilians into the melee. Drew couldn’t get near; every time the Werewolf tried to manoeuvre around his opponents to reach their master, the Vermirian Guard would push him back, cutting him off and forcing him to defend himself.
Many of the townsfolk and servants who had sheltered in the throne room had managed to escape, finding antechambers to hide in, or corridors that led away from the bloody brawl. One of the servants picked up a finely dressed young girl who wore a thin crown twined with snowdrops, holding her close to his chest as he turned and fled towards the Lady’s Tower. Drew knew the child: Lady Mia, Duke Manfred’s youngest daughter. To his horror he realized he wasn’t the only therian who had spied the man’s valiant deed. Vorjavik disengaged from the combat, turning on a large black clawed foot to go after them. Spurred on by the sight of the Wererat giving chase, Drew fought with renewed fury, Moonbrand cutting through the Vermirians until he’d carved himself a path.
Drew found the servant’s corpse on the stairs, a hole cleaved in his back from a mighty blow from the Ratlord’s war mattock. Drew raced on, leaping up the stairwell, desperate to prevent Vorjavik from harming Lady Mia. He heard the roar of the Wererat ahead, in the highest chambers of the tower, accompanied by the sound of furniture being overturned and smashed open.
‘Where are you, child?’ the beast snarled, his voice echoing down the stairwell.
Drew paused to catch his breath on a small landing, where a narrow open window allowed the sounds of battle to enter the tower from the night beyond. The same question raced through his mind: Where are you, Mia? If Vorjavik had reached the tower top and missed her, then there was a chance she was nearby. Drew glanced into the alcove, catching sight of something unusual on the cold paved floor. A tiny white flower lay near the window’s edge, its white petals trembling, the chill breeze threatening to carry it away at any moment: a snowdrop from Mia’s crown. Drew stepped into the alcove, craning his head out of the stone aperture. There was the terrified child, standing on the window ledge, a hundred feet from the ground, her back to the brickwork, fingers gripping the grey stone. The sight of the Werewolf’s head emerging from the window startled her, making her lose her grip. Drew dropped Moonbrand on the stone sill behind him in the act of steadying her. The noise echoed through the alcove and stairwell, no doubt alerting the Wererat on the floor above.
Drew turned to the young girl who trembled at the window’s edge, her eyes glistening with tears. He raised a finger to his black, lupine lips, insisting she remained silent.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ said Vorjavik, his armour grating against the curved stone wall as he descended the stairs.
Drew knew why Vorjavik sought her so eagerly: if captured, she could be a hostage, the Ratlord’s guarantee of passage out of Stormdale after the disastrous end to his siege. Drew composed himself, steadying his breathing as the footsteps came closer. Leaving Mia perched on the ledge, he crouched and picked up Moonbrand. The sword glowed for the briefest moment before Drew stowed it away, hiding the white blade inside his cloak, his back to the alcove.
‘I’m not going to hurt you, little Stag,’ rasped the transformed Wererat.
As a long, clawed foot stepped into view on the staircase, Moonbrand appeared in a flash from the folds of Drew’s cloak. The sword struck the stone, severing the front half of the Wererat’s foot. Vorjavik tumbled, screaming ferociously, his war mattock flying into the window’s alcove. The hammerhead crashed into Drew’s studded leather breastplate, sending him back towards the open window. The Rat filled the staircase, his maimed foot spouting blood as he righted himself.
Drew had to think quickly. Sheathing Moonbrand, the Werewolf stumbled out of the window, and out on to the ledge beside the child.
‘Climb on,’ he growled. Mia clambered on to his back, grabbing the thick, grey fur around his throat. Using his clawed feet he began to scale the wall, one hand snatching at the rough stones that provided holds. The Ratlord thrust his clawed hands through the window, snatching at the Wolf as he swung his trailing leg clear. Drew could hear Vorjavik’s armour scraping against the window frame, preventing him from coming after them. There was a clatter of steel as the Rat ditched his platemail and emerged on to the ledge below them.
Mia screamed at the sight of the scrambling Wererat, digging her fingers ever tighter around Drew’s throat.
‘Don’t look at him,’ said Drew, climbing higher, grabbing at the stones, using his left elbow for leverage. The climb to the tower top sapped his strength, and the crenellated edge was still twenty feet away. With each grasp and push he drew closer, the possibility of falling never far from his thoughts as the pitted grey stones crumbled beneath the weight of his lycanthrope body. Vorjavik was nearing them, unhindered by a burden on his back, although his chopped foot bled freely as he came closer. A shadow passed across the moon abov
e, and Drew caught sight of Red Rufus battling against Scree and one of his brothers, Hawk and Crows spinning as they ripped into one another with talon and blade.
A clawed hand clamped on to Drew’s right leg, tearing into his flesh as he neared the summit.
‘You can’t escape me!’ gloated Vorjavik, sharp tongue flickering over his serrated teeth.
Suddenly, the Rat released his grip on Drew, striking his arm out against a furious black beak that stabbed at his neck. Fate had intervened, not for the first time that night. Having spied the Rat, Scree’s brother left the fight against Red Rufus to swoop down and attack Vorjavik. The Werecrow’s feet raked the Rat’s exposed spine, talons clenching tight as they tore huge lumps of oily-haired flesh from Vorjavik’s back.
Drew hurried on as the Rat snatched hold of the Crowlord’s beak, using all his strength to swing it round and smash it into the wall. Again and again Vorjavik drove the Werecrow into the ancient brickwork, until he released his grip and the Birdlord fell lifeless from the tower.
Drew hauled his body over the tower top, and Mia dropped from his back to her feet. The Werewolf lay there for a moment, breathing hard, exhausted. A black, clawed hand emerged over the parapet, swiftly followed by another, spurring Drew back into action. He staggered back to his feet as the Wererat clambered across the battlements, his black pelt soaked in blood.
‘Give me the girl,’ snarled a panting Vorjavik, as Mia hid behind Drew. ‘Hand her over and I’ll let you live, Wolf.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ replied Drew. He ripped Moonbrand from its scabbard, the sword shining white, as Vorjavik unhitched his war mattock. A glance above revealed that the moon was hidden behind a bank of clouds, which obscured its light from the enchanted blade, though the sword shone with its own inner glow.
‘You can’t win this war, boy.’
‘Perhaps not,’ growled Drew. ‘But we’ve won this battle.’
Below, beyond the castle walls, the twin armies of the Rat and the Crows had been routed. Each force hurried on its way through the ruined city, clashing with one another all the while, as Greycloak arrows hastened their flight. Vorjavik grimaced, spitting over the battlements.
‘I ask for an army and they send me the Crows! Useless scum!’
‘It was one of your arrows that sparked the violence, Rat. Perhaps it’s your men of Vermire who are to blame for your failure? Your masters will be … displeased, no doubt.’
‘I have no master!’ screamed the wild-eyed Wererat, stepping forward on his ravaged foot. He looked unsteady as the blood loss from his back wounds took its toll. ‘I’m Vorjavik of Vermire! The Rat King Warrior! There shall never be another Ratlord like me!’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Drew, as he lunged forward with Moonbrand.
The war mattock parried the sword to one side, and Vorjavik swung it back the other way to deflect the following blow. The Wererat’s jaws snapped over the weapons, and the Werewolf met them with his own teeth. The therians bit at one another’s faces, each trying to gouge his foe’s flesh. Vorjavik brought a powerful knee up as he batted aside another sword thrust, catching Drew hard in the groin. Drew doubled over as the long handle of the Rat’s mattock smashed him across the jaw. The Wolflord’s huge frame hurtled back across the tower top towards Mia. He hit the crenellations with a bone-jarring crunch, Moonbrand clattering to the rooftop as he lurched dangerously over the edge.
Lady Mia grabbed at Drew, her feeble hands trying to pull him back. The Wererat backhanded her, sending her skidding across the tower, her head crashing into the parapet with a smack. Drew reached back, his fingers straining to hold on to the battlements, slowly dragging himself to safety. The lycanthrope’s head swam and his heart hammered as he struggled to catch his breath. He heard the sound of Moonbrand being scraped across the stone as Vorjavik lifted the sacred Sword of the Wolflords. Drew collapsed against the ramparts, lifting his head weakly as the Ratlord towered over him.
‘It appears my campaign wasn’t entirely in vain,’ laughed Vorjavik, raising the sword over his head. The blade was black, the glow gone while it was in the Wererat’s grasp. ‘I shall return to Highcliff with the Wolf’s execution fresh on my lips.’
Vorjavik’s pink eyes went suddenly wide with shock, his long snout trembling and needle-teeth rattling as he shook where he stood. Slowly, the tip of a greatsword emerged from his chest, inch by inch, his eyes looking down on it as he dropped Moonbrand with a clang. The Wererat’s black head wobbled as blood bubbled from his lips, and the sword ripped free as he staggered towards the tower’s edge. Reinhardt stood behind him, and the Staglord lifted the sword for one final swing.
‘You return to the earth, Ratlord, with your blood fresh on my sword.’
The greatsword flew, cleaving Vorjavik’s head from his shoulders, and the decapitated body of the Wererat disappeared over the parapet into the night. Reinhardt went to his sister, picking up her limp body from the floor, cradling her in his arms. Drew could only watch. Even if he’d known what to say, he couldn’t speak; the air had not yet returned to his battered lungs.
7
Constricted
The cage juddered to a halt thirty feet below the Great Oak’s landing platform. The rope creaked and groaned under the strain of the overloaded lift, the bamboo frame swinging menacingly as the men cried out from within and around it. Those who clung to the exterior of the lift held on even tighter, as the pendulous motion of the cage threatened to send them falling to their deaths. Trent grimaced, every muscle burning as he kept hold of the giant Romari who dangled beneath the barred floor. Above, the chilling screams of Greencapes could be heard, drifting down from Brackenholme Hall like dead leaves on the wind.
‘The hall’s under attack!’ said Captain Harker, struggling to stand upright on the cage roof.
‘How did they get up there?’ asked one of the Greencloaks. ‘The lifts are the only means of reaching the hall, and this is the last to be drawn up!’
‘The false Baba must be behind it,’ said Harker, as a green-caped palace guard fell past them, swallowed by the smoke below.
‘Keep hold,’ hissed Trent through gritted teeth.
‘I wasn’t planning on letting go,’ said the Romari giant, veins bulging around his broad neck, eyes closed with concentration. Trent stared past him, looking down the length of the mighty tree trunk as it vanished into the darkness. He spied movement on the Great Oak’s rough bark surface. Trent squinted; there was the movement again, here and there, dotting the tree’s enormous frame: Wyldermen. The savages were scaling the oak, using knives, axes and bare hands to climb.
‘They’re coming!’ screamed Trent, making the cage swing more violently than before as the trapped Greencloaks panicked. The old Romari with the rapier jumped gracefully to his feet beside Harker, snatching up the thick rope with both hands.
‘What are you doing, Stirga?’ said the captain, as the old sword-swallower began to climb.
‘I’m getting us moving again,’ he called back, scurrying up the rope with an agility that belied his age. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said sarcastically as he disappeared towards the platform, heading straight for the screams.
Duchess Rainier barred Whitley’s way, four members of the Bearguard flanking her.
‘Please, Mother; stand aside. I’m needed out there.’
The duchess would not be swayed. She had waited for too long to be reunited with her daughter to allow some foolish notion of duty to take the child from her again. Gretchen stood a short distance away, watching in silence, refusing to get involved in the family dispute.
‘You’re needed in here, Whitley,’ said Rainier, glowering. ‘I can’t allow you to leave. I forbid it.’
‘You can’t stand in my way. Please, let me pass.’ Whitley tried to barge past her mother, only for one of Rainier’s most loyal soldiers to block her path.
‘Stand down, sir,’ snarled Whitley, shifting her quarterstaff in her grip. The armoured knight of the Bea
rguard stared back apologetically. Realizing that she would not be able to persuade him, she turned back to the duchess.
‘Your Grace, I gave my word when I took the green, when I accepted this.’ She let the steel-shod end of the staff strike the hard floor of the throne room. ‘I am a scout of the Woodland Watch, and I am oath-bound to protect Brackenholme.’ She reached out with her other hand, squeezing her mother’s hand tightly. ‘Please, Mother, stand aside. I won’t leave you.’
Rainier stared at her daughter, but it was clear that she could not persuade her from her duty. Bergan’s blood ran through her veins, of that there was no doubt. Reluctantly, the duchess stood to one side, the Bearguard moving with her, allowing the young therian lady to pass.
‘Be careful,’ her mother called after her, as Whitley disappeared through Brackenholme Hall’s enormous double doors.
Running along the platforms and bridges that led away from the building, Whitley strapped the quarterstaff to her back and shifted her shortbow into her hands. The grey clouds that rolled up from the burning city obscured the walkways ahead, and her line of sight to the lifts was shrouded in choking smoke. She slowed as she spied the first bodies through the gloom.
Three Greencapes lay broken on the walkway, their limbs twisted, faces contorted into terrified death masks. She stumbled past them, her whole being cold with fear. Drawing back her bow, she edged further along the platform, creeping ever nearer the lift deck where she could hear the dying screams of the palace guards. Another Greencape lay ahead, his breastplate punctured by two fist-sized wounds a foot apart, one in his chest, one in his gut. The shortbow trembled in Whitley’s grasp.
A great shape moved through the smoke, a long, undulating black mass, flashes of purple visible on its underbelly as it searched for fresh victims. She loosed an arrow, the missile whistling through the air to thunk ineffectually into the creature’s body. It stopped moving, the silhouette of a huge, hooded head rising as it spied her. Giant green eyes appeared for the first time, widening as the stuff of nightmares fixed its glare upon Whitley.
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 15
