Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  It can’t be, thought the Bearlady, recognizing the monster from Drew’s description. She turned and ran, leaping over the corpses, heading straight for the hall with the beast at her back.

  Whitley’s fists hammered on the carved wooden doors, and the scout glanced back as she screamed, ‘Let me in!’

  Bars clanked in their housings, whipped clear as the doors swung open. She collapsed into the arms of Gretchen who looked out on to the smoke-filled walkway as the monster appeared.

  ‘Brenn help us,’ whispered the Werefox, immediately recognizing the creature before her. ‘Shut the doors!’ she shouted.

  The Bearguard slammed the doors shut, driving the bars home on either side, reinforcing it without a moment to spare. The door shuddered as something enormous thundered into it with an earth-splitting roar, dislodging dust from the ceiling above.

  ‘The windows!’ cried Whitley. ‘Barricade every entrance! Quickly!’

  The Bearguard dashed to every corner of the throne room, shuttering windows, upturning tables and bracing them against every portal, reinforcing them against the beast outside.

  Gretchen and Whitley held on to one another, backing slowly away from the door, eyes fixed upon the entrance.

  ‘Is that –?’ began Gretchen, before Whitley raised a hand to silence her.

  A scraping sound could be heard through the doorway, as if a great weight strained against it. Whitley looked back towards the centre of the throne room where Duchess Rainier now stood, hands to her face, a knight at her side. Around them two dozen courtiers and servants huddled, whispering and sobbing as they stared at the doors.

  The windows rattled as the enemy’s great mass found purchase against the hall’s wooden walls. The doors trembled, more dust billowing down as the building shuddered. The wooden doors bowed inwards, timbers groaning as the monster squeezed against them, forcing its weight behind them. There was a snapping, splintering noise as the doors suddenly buckled, threatening to shatter.

  ‘Do you think you are sssssssafe in there, ladiessssss?’

  ‘It’s Vala,’ gasped Gretchen, terrifying memories of the Wyrmwood flooding back, when the Wyldermen delivered her to the Wereserpent as a sacrificial offering.

  Whitley took a step forward, and three knights of the Bearguard joined her. They may have been the best of Duke Bergan’s warriors, but Gretchen could sense their terror.

  ‘Leave this city, Vala!’ cried Whitley, a fragile confidence in her voice. ‘Go back to your Wyrmwood or whatever stone you’ve slithered out from under. Remain here and we shall put you to the sword.’

  The Wereserpent hissed behind the door, the awful sound sending a wave of terror through the throne room. The noise was primal, striking a fearful chord in them all.

  ‘Sssssssooooo, itsssss the little Bear who ssssspeakssss? Good, good: you’ve come a long way from the frightened rain-sssssoaked child we firsssssst met in Cape Gala.’

  Whitley turned to look at Gretchen.

  ‘Cape Gala? What is she talking about?’ asked Whitley. ‘You don’t know me!’ she shouted, facing the door once more.

  ‘Don’t know you?’ cried the Wereserpent, her huge body bucking against the door, hammering the walls and windows. ‘I fed and clothed you. My Rolff even helped you find your friendsssssssss.’

  Whitley’s legs gave way as she dropped on to one knee, a horrible realization dawning on her.

  ‘Brenn forgive me,’ she said, to herself as much as the others. ‘I brought the monster here!’

  ‘Monssssster?’ cried Vala, her voice rising to a near scream. ‘Issssss that any way to sssssspeak of a dear …’ The door buckled again, struck from outside. ‘Old …’ The timber cracked, no longer able to resist the constricting coils of the Wereserpent.

  ‘Baba!’

  The doors blew open, showering splintered timber across the throne room. A wooden stake caught a Bearguard in the chest, punching through his platemail and catapulting him into the screaming courtiers. The two other knights with Whitley ran forward, swords and shields raised, as the giant snake slid into the hall. As roll upon roll of black scaled skin rippled into the ancient chamber, Vala’s monstrous head darted from side to side. She spat venom at the first warrior, the milky white spray catching him in the face, sending him screaming to his knees as his weapon and shield bounced off the ground. The other knight managed to carve a gash in the Wereserpent’s side before her coils looped round him and tightened instantly, the knight’s bones snapping like twigs.

  Whitley snatched up one of the knights’ swords and leapt forward, unleashing a battle cry as she brought the blade down on the Wereserpent’s writhing flank. As a scout, she had been trained to fight with a quarterstaff, and the blade felt unwieldy in her hand. But now her city had fallen, her people were dying and her mother was in mortal danger. The weapon bounced off Vala’s black scales, juddering in Whitley’s grasp before almost springing from her palm.

  The Serpent coiled around her, making the girl spin on her heel, lashing out with the longsword once more. The enormous head darted forward, mouth open, a monstrous hiss escaping Vala’s throat as her tongue rattled between her fangs. Whitley brought the sword round, both hands clasping the handle now for fear of losing hold. The flat of the blade caught the Wereserpent’s jaw, knocking its head to one side, but not enough to stop it wrapping its coils round the Bearlady.

  The pain was instantaneous as the coils tightened, squeezing the air from Whitley’s lungs. The sword fell to the floor with a clatter as the giant snake lifted the girl into the air. If she had had any mastery over the beast within, any knowledge of how to control her therianthropy, Whitley would have called upon it, channelled the Bear and fought back. She knew Gretchen had shifted in the past, briefly and with varying degrees of success, but that was where she and her cousin differed. The Fox was fiery and aggressive, with a dark side that bubbled beneath the surface. Whitley was none of these things, an ursanthrope in name alone. She prayed to Brenn that the Bear might come to her rescue as Vala’s coils slowly squeezed the life out of her.

  Gretchen skidded to her knees beside the fallen Bearguard, trying to roll him clear of the Wereserpent’s thrashing tail. The knight was gripped by convulsions as the white venom that smothered his face affected his entire body. When his struggles suddenly ceased, he became a deadweight in her arms, the fight gone from his poisoned body. Gretchen rose as the Serpent wrapped Whitley within its coils.

  One of the courtiers dashed past, sprinting for the splintered doorway, leaping over the fallen knight as he made a break for freedom. Vala’s tail lashed out, catching him in the chest and sending him flying back into the crowd, splitting them as they ran screaming to every corner of the chamber. Gretchen rose, dancing clear of the deadly tail, searching for her friend among the Serpent’s coils. Vala had a strong grip on Whitley now, and the girl’s movements grew lethargic, her head lolling as the fight faded from her.

  Gretchen looked back as the last Bearguard advanced, his weapon and shield before him.

  ‘Stay with the duchess!’ she said as she manoeuvred around the monster. It had been a long time since she had channelled her therian side, but now she called upon her inner Fox as she leapt gracefully, looking for an opportunity to strike. She could feel her teeth sharpening like needles against her lips, while her fingernails became razor-sharp claws.

  ‘Ssssssoooo, the little Fox wantsssss to play?’ hissed Vala, her big emerald eyes widening as she caught sight of Gretchen across the hall.

  ‘Let her go!’ growled Gretchen, dagger raised over her head, ready to throw. Beyond the walls she could hear the noise of battle in the treetop.

  ‘It ssseemssss my ssssubjectssss have arrived! Thisss sssshall be their new home, thissss hall their temple! There’ssss a ready ssssupply of food to ssssate my appetite,’ she spat, her head darting towards the sobbing courtiers who cowered around the chamber.

  ‘Curse you, Vala! I’ll die before I let you harm any more of these people!
’

  ‘Oh no, ssssweet Lady Gretchen; you ssshall not die. Neither you nor the Bearladiessss sssshall be further harmed. At leassst, not until the Wolf arrivessss. That’ssss right, issssn’t it? He’ll come for you, won’t he, jusssst asss my children come for me?’

  ‘Drew could be dead for all I know,’ replied Gretchen, although in her heart she prayed he yet lived.

  ‘Two pretty little Wereladiessss, both in love with the ssssame hound,’ hissed Vala.

  ‘You said we wouldn’t be harmed!’ Gretchen gestured towards Whitley, hanging limp in Vala’s coils. ‘If you have killed her, so help me Brenn, you’ll be next!’

  The Serpent shook the unconscious Bearlady, her tail rattling with excitement. She tossed Whitley to one side, her body rolling over the floorboards, limbs tangling lifelessly as she came to a halt before her sobbing mother.

  ‘I have sssspared her: sssshe merely ssssleepssss!’ Vala rose, her hood broadening around her head as she towered over the terrified onlookers. The purple ribs of her underbelly glistened as she took an indulgent moment to boast, victoriously, ‘Pray to your god all you like, child. It’ssss time you learned there issss only one true deity: Vala, the Sssssserpent Goddessssss!’

  Gretchen sprang forward, as the Wereserpent attacked.

  8

  Skirmish

  Reuben Fry stared down at the three arrows in the snow at his feet, counting them once more as if they might magically have multiplied since his last glance. Three sorry arrows: that was his lot. He looked down the ice canyon ahead, catching sight of more of Sheriff Muller’s men. The bandit-lord, allied to Prince Lucas and the armies of the Catlords, had caught wind of Duke Bergan’s miraculous survival and subsequent reappearance in the Badlands. Ambushed by at least thirty bandits, Captain Fry and his companions had been chased into the narrow gorge, scrambling over ice as the enemy closed off any escape route. They were trapped.

  When the four survivors from Highcliff had finally emerged from the underworld, they’d found they were deep within Sheriff Muller’s land, with the Whitepeaks agonizingly within reach. They had since been picking their way through the foothills of Sturmland, avoiding enemy scouting parties. The Lion had clearly sent his greatest force north towards Captain Fry’s homeland; the myriad campfires of Prince Lucas’s army twinkled across the Badlands as far as the eye could see. Bergan’s only hope of survival had been to find a way to his cousin in Icegarden, Duke Henrik, but there seemed little chance of surviving this encounter in the frozen ravine, let alone reaching the Strakenberg. This canyon would probably be their tomb.

  Fry looked down from his vantage point, a wide ledge of ice that jutted out from the gorge wall, spying Bergan, Carver and Pick hugging the rocks below. The Bearlord was finding his strength again, his half-moon axe gripped menacingly in his hands. The Lord of Thieves, Carver, held a knife in each of his, with more within easy reach on his weapon belt, while Pick crouched behind him, a dagger shaking in the girl’s trembling fist.

  ‘Three arrows,’ Fry whispered to himself, plucking the first from the snow and nocking it in his bow. ‘Let’s make them count.’

  Bergan let the breath steam gradually from his lips. The bandits might know that the four had fled into the gorge, and could no doubt see the sheer wall of ice a short distance away where the trail suddenly ended, but he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. A traitorous cloud of exhaled air could reveal their position. There was no sense in making this easy for the enemy. If they wanted them dead, he and his companions would take a few with them.

  Fry, a crack shot with his bow, was fifteen feet above them, obscured from Muller’s Skirmishers but visible to Bergan. The archer had been indispensable, managing to catch game – rabbits, pigeons, small deer – since escaping from the dread dark below ground. A campfire had been out of the question: they had eaten the meat raw, a grisly business for the young girl, but necessary to ensure that they weren’t spotted by their enemy. Pick now cowered behind Carver on the opposite side of the frozen ravine, her eyes watching the Bearlord, seeking reassurance. Bergan smiled, showing a jagged white scar within his bushy red beard. You’re right to feel afraid, child …

  Bergan looked up, watching Fry draw back his bow, taking aim. The arrow’s flight would be the signal to attack. The Sturmlander would fire when the enemy was within charging distance for Bergan and Carver. The space beyond their hiding place was a bare icy clearing between the gorge’s white walls, which opened out from a narrower passage, wide enough to let through a handful of Skirmishers but no more. Best to take them on our own terms, reasoned Bergan, readying his axe.

  The bowstring sang and Bergan leapt from the shadows, Carver and Pick close behind. Five of the Skirmishers had entered the clearing, and one was already spreadeagled on the floor with a feathered arrow quivering in his chest. Although startled, the bandits were prepared, their swords and clubs raised as the Bearlord charged them. The first club took the full weight of the half-moon blade, rattling in the Skirmisher’s hand as it bounced back and struck its owner on the skull. Bergan carried the glancing blow round, hacking a great gash into the belly of the next man. Another darted in with his shortsword, catching the Bearlord in the thigh before ripping it free. Before the bandit could strike again, one of Carver’s throwing knives struck him in the neck, sending him to meet his friends on the cold ravine floor.

  The last attacker avoided the men and went for Pick. His sword slashed forward as she stumbled to get clear. An arrow lanced down from above, hitting the top of the Skirmisher’s bare head as he was dispatched with a gurgling grunt.

  Carver leapt forward, plunging one knife into the concussed bandit before tearing his other free from the first he’d slain.

  ‘Five down,’ he snarled as more rushed through the narrow passage.

  Bergan decided he had preserved his energy for long enough; now was the time to channel the beast. His battered boots tore open, the rotten leather finally expiring as dark claws ripped free from huge, heavy feet. His ribs rattled momentarily with anticipation as his lungs expanded, the bones lengthening and thickening as his great barrel chest tripled in size. He shifted the axe into a huge, pawed hand, while the other remained free, enormous palm open, ready to strike. The Werebear’s head shook, his beard transforming into a thick russet pelt as a broad, powerful muzzle tore free. His black nose snorted, lips were bared and jaws open wide as he roared with all the fury he could conjure.

  The Skirmishers slowed within the narrow passage, skidding across the ice into a heap as they thought twice about facing the Bearlord.

  ‘Into them, you swines!’ cried their leader from the rear.

  Those at the back surged forward, pushing on the ones whose spirits were daunted by the sight of the Werebear. The bandits staggered into the icy clearing, weapons raised in defence against the monstrous ursanthrope. The first three who entered the frozen arena fell quickly, slaughtered by axe, tooth and claw. Those who followed were grateful for their comrades’ sacrifice, spreading around the icy walls and encircling the Bear.

  Seven of the Skirmishers had swarmed through the gap while Bergan attacked their friends. Spear, axe and sword stabbed and slashed at the Werelord. He struck out, felling one with each attack, but always another appeared in the dead man’s place, their sheer weight of numbers tipping the tide in the favour of Muller’s men. Still their commander screamed, urging them on as they flooded into the ravine.

  Carver busied himself with his knives, the blades flying from his wrists like steel lightning, but they soon ran out, and the Thief-lord valiantly used his remaining one to parry his enemies’ blows. A sword tore across his shin, and Carver bounced off the wall behind him on one leg, with each bandit eager to deal the killing blow. The last of Fry’s arrows ripped through the air, taking another Skirmisher in the throat, but still more poured through, clambering over their dead companions. Pick went over on one side as a blow from a club caught her temple. Her attacker stood over her, weapon raised. Fry l
anded on top of the man, jumping from above, sword in hand. The blade disappeared into the man’s back, but another was on Fry immediately, his knife stabbing deeply through the archer’s leather breastplate as the two fell.

  Bergan’s vision was clouding, as the red mist of battle was gradually replaced by a grey fog of exhaustion. A fully fit Werebear might have fought for hours against many foes, but his frail body and the weeks he’d spent beneath the earth had caught up with him. He swung his axe, but the bandits were dodging now, evading and flanking him, darting in when his back was turned. The swords and cudgels found their mark repeatedly. If he fell now, the enemy would finish him, silver weapons or not – he’d never leave this Brenn-forsaken canyon.

  Was this the way Bergan, the Great Bear of Brackenholme, would die? Beneath a shower of clubs and rusty steel?

  Though he was concussed, the sound of stones crashing around him alerted him to a deadly rockfall. The Werebear staggered back towards the ravine wall, crushing one of his enemies with his broad back as jagged stones rained down. Then arrows flew, peppering the Skirmishers and whittling down their numbers with alarming speed. Bergan glanced up, and his weary eyes caught sight of men standing on top of the canyon, boulders raised and bows aimed at the Skirmishers. They were saved.

  Hector stalked along the bottom of the ravine, Ringlin and Ibal on either side of him, as his Ugri warriors commenced their assault on Muller’s men from the canyon top. Muller’s nephew, Captain Stephan, stood at the entrance to a jagged tunnel whose white walls towered like a cathedral of ice, with three concerned-looking Skirmishers alongside him. They were backing nervously away from the dark pathway, as the screams of their comrades echoed down the frozen corridor like tormented spirits.