Stephan looked over his shoulder, spying Hector and speeding towards him.
‘Blackhand,’ he said. ‘You’re here, and not a moment too soon. Lord Flint said he’d be sending you along for the fight: I believe you have scores to settle with the Bear? Well, it appears he has help in there; my soldiers are taking a beating. You’ve brought your Boarguard, I hope?’
‘I have indeed,’ said Hector as he stepped up to the bandit captain. His jewelled dagger shot out from the folds of his cloak, vanishing into Stephan’s guts, the man’s eyes ballooning in horror.
Ringlin and Ibal moved fast. The tall one’s long knives slashed forward, striking one of the surprised Skirmishers in the chest, while the short, fat one scythed his sickle blade across the face of another. The third soldier started running, back towards the white passageway, stumbling to the frozen ground as a long knife hit him between the shoulder blades.
Stephan whispered as Hector held him in his embrace, slowly lowering him to the cold canyon floor.
‘Why?’ he gargled, his lips frothing red.
‘Sleep knowing that your sacrifice was for the greater good, captain,’ said Hector, cocking his head with morbid fascination as he watched the light fade in the man’s eyes.
You’re getting good at this, brother, whispered the Vincent-vile, curled invisibly around Hector’s shoulders. You won’t need me at all before long.
‘There’s plenty more work for you yet, Vincent,’ Hector replied, gently settling Captain Stephan on the frozen rocks. He looked up as four figures shambled warily out of the tall gash in the ice, bloodied but alive. Ringlin and Ibal stepped away, bowing to Duke Bergan as the Bearlord limped into the light, Bo Carver and Reuben Fry supporting him beneath either arm. A girl staggered behind them, her hair matted with blood, feet stumbling gingerly across the uneven canyon floor.
Hector rose from the captain’s body, smiling as Bergan caught sight of him.
‘Can it be?’ said the Bearlord, his bloodshot eyes watering as they fell on the Baron of Redmire. He pulled free of Carver and Fry, his arms wide as Hector rushed forward. The hug was heartfelt: dishevelled as he was, Hector could still feel the awesome strength in Bergan’s arms, his ribs grating uncomfortably in the Bearlord’s squeeze. Bergan held him at arm’s length so he could better look at him.
‘My boy,’ he exclaimed. ‘What a sight for sore eyes! How in the Seven Realms have you happened across us? Brenn must be watching over us!’
Captain Fry bowed respectfully at Bergan’s side, while Carver stood on the other, nodding briefly at the Boarlord before turning his suspicious gaze on Ringlin and Ibal.
Does he know them, do you think, brother? The Lord of Thieves recognizes a reprobate when he sees one, I warrant …
‘Not Brenn, Your Grace,’ replied Hector. ‘Times are strange, events move apace throughout Lyssia, with unlikely alliances forming across the map.’ He pointed up to the ravine’s top, where the handful of Ugri had gathered, their grisly work of slaying the Skirmishers completed.
‘Meet my new members of the Boarguard. It was the Creep who spotted you, picking your way through the same foothills that we were traversing. He’s my scout.’
‘Scout?’ said Fry, as all four of Bergan’s company looked up at the warriors. Fry squinted, his sharp vision never failing him. ‘They’re Ugri. How on earth have they come to be in your service, my lord?’ he asked, as respectfully as he could.
He’s a Sturmlander, this one, whispered Vincent. He’ll take some convincing; you’re allied with his mortal enemy after all.
Hector ignored his brother’s phantom, directing his answer back to Fry.
‘Like I said, Captain; strange alliances. This band from Tuskun are renegades, not loyal to the late Queen Slotha.’
‘Late queen?’ said Bergan.
‘She was killed in Highcliff apparently. We caught another of Muller’s men a couple of days ago, and he spilled what he knew before he passed. It transpires she’d arrived in Westland seeking some kind of union with Prince Lucas. The Lion’s new Lord Magister murdered her in cold blood,’ he added, unable to resist the temptation of embellishing his story. ‘Regardless of what one thinks of Slotha, that was a barbaric thing to do, especially under the flag of parley. The Catlords are to be feared, Your Grace.’
‘Who’s this new magister the Prince has in his employ?’ asked the Bearlord, his bushy brow furrowed.
‘“Blackhand” they call him,’ piped up Ringlin, interrupting the Werelords’ discussion. Hector shot him a dark look. He felt his left hand clench inside its glove; he was desperate that it should remain concealed, and his knuckles cracked as the withered black flesh stretched beneath the leather.
‘Excuse my man’s lack of decorum, Your Grace,’ said Hector. ‘He forgets himself.’
Bergan dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand.
‘Your fellow there can speak freely, Hector: he and your Boarguard saved us. We’re in your debt, my boy.’
‘I don’t mean to harp on this, my lord,’ said Fry. ‘But the Ugri? How are they with you? As a Sturmlander who grew up in Roof, I know these people. They’re not to be trusted.’
‘The Catlords make no distinction when picking their enemies, judging by the fate of the Tuskun Queen. Many villages have been put to the torch by the Vermirian Guard as the Catlords demand absolute obedience from the Ugri. Two Axes is the leader of that crowd up there: it was his village that was the first to be burned. He brought his men over to our side.’
‘I’d be wary, is all, my lord,’ said Fry.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Captain; we take help where we find it. Lucas and the Catlords aren’t content with Westland: they want to enslave the whole of Lyssia. Those brave souls up there have sworn fealty to me, in return for my protection as and when this terrible war is over. What kind of man would I be if I turned my back on them?’
Bergan clapped Hector’s back, the magister’s passionate words clearly enough to convince him. ‘Wise words and a noble gesture, Hector. It seems you’ve done a lot of growing up since I last saw you. Your father would have been proud.’
‘How did you escape Highcliff, and furthermore find yourself out here in the wilds?’ asked Carver, making no attempt at speaking to the Boarlord with even a trace of respect.
Vega’s friend, whispered Vincent. Cut from the same arrogant cloth, no doubt.
‘We fled aboard the Maelstrom,’ said Hector to Bergan, avoiding eye contact with the Lord of Thieves. ‘Queen Amelie was safely aboard, you’ll be pleased to hear, as were Manfred and Vega.’
‘Why are you no longer with them?’ asked Carver.
‘We stopped for provisions in Moga, Baron Bosa’s port. We encountered hostility there, and while my men and I were ashore,’ said Hector, indicating Ringlin and Ibal, ‘we were separated. They left without us.’
‘Great shame, my boy,’ said Bergan sadly.
‘I bear them no ill will. They were in a terrible predicament. I wouldn’t want to have been in their situation, faced with leaving a fellow Werelord and member of the Wolf’s Council behind. They did what they had to.’
Bergan hugged him once more.
‘And you survived! Thank Brenn, Hector. Abandoned in Tuskun and yet still you’ve had the wits to get this far. Let us help you the rest of your way. To Icegarden, I presume?’
‘That’s where we’re heading, Your Grace. I only pray that Duke Henrik will answer our call for help.’
‘My cousin has little choice if he wants to survive this war,’ said Bergan, turning to all of them. ‘Come, we waste time; we can talk as we travel. Onwards, to the Strakenberg and the halls of the White Bear.’
The Bearlord set off, his stride and spirit lifting after his reunion with Hector. Fry walked with him, while Carver waited, staring at Hector, his hand resting on Pick’s shoulder at his side.
‘After you, dear Baron,’ said the Thief-lord.
Hector set off with Ringlin and Ibal, the Ugri shadowing them above as they
followed them down towards the canyon entrance.
He won’t have you at his back, said the vile. He’s no fool, that one.
Hector walked on without looking back, his eyes drilling into the Bearlord’s back.
‘He can walk where he likes,’ whispered Hector. ‘So long as we’re heading towards Icegarden and Bergan trusts me, that’s all that matters.’
‘Expertly played, my lord,’ said Ringlin quietly, assuming his liege was addressing him. ‘They’ll welcome us with open arms, just as the old Bear did.’
Hector nodded, patting Ringlin’s shoulder. ‘Let’s hope Duke Henrik’s in hospitable mood. He has a great many guests on their way to his halls.’
9
The Good Redcloak
Trent dashed up the steps, bounding over the splintered timbers that littered the threshold of Brackenholme Hall. The war cries of the wild men echoed around him, a bloodthirsty chorus accompanying the defenders’ screams.
The small Romari with the rapier – Stirga they had called him – was a fearless soul. His quick thinking at the lift had led him to climb to the platform above without a thought for his own safety. The cage had soon cranked back into life, just as the first Wylderman had begun to pass them, scaling the pitted bark of the oak. The butchered bodies of the palace guard had awaited them upon arrival, torn to pieces by a powerful foe. Trent had followed the trail of dead Greencapes towards the monstrous hissing sounds, across the bridges, between the branches, finally arriving at the Bearlord’s hall.
Stepping through the debris, he felt his knees buckle as he caught sight of the beast within. A giant black serpent blocked his path, its shining coils undulating, writhing, its tail lashing out as it fought with one of the hall’s defenders. The snake’s body switched one way and then the other before Trent, rising up and down and from left to right as it weaved in front of the lone combatant. He glimpsed the figure that faced the monster, a young woman, dancing around the beast as its great head lunged forward, trying to bite her. She was light on her feet, her clawed hands slashing through the dark scales along the snake’s flanks. When Trent spied the girl’s flowing red locks his worst fears were confirmed.
Gretchen sprang forward, catching hold of the Serpent’s amethyst underside, digging her claws in as she allowed gravity and momentum to carry her back to the floor. She left behind long, bloodied strips of torn skin with pale white muscle bulging from the wounds. Dark blood rose in the jagged gouges, spilling on to the floor as the Serpent recoiled, smashing its tail and wounded body into the walls on either side of the hall. The monster’s great hooded head whipped down towards the panting Werefox, green eyes blazing with rage.
‘The Bearladiessss will ssssuffice as hosssstagessss! You, Fox, have outlived your ussssefulnessss! It hasss been too long ssssince I dined on therian flessssssh!’
Before the monster could strike the Fox, Trent was running. Sprinting up a shattered timber that had once supported the hall’s enormous doors, he launched himself through the air, the Wolfshead blade raised high as he landed astride the beast and plunged it deep into the snake’s body. The Serpent recoiled from Gretchen, whirling through the air, its head flashing round until it faced the young Redcloak who had dared attack it.
‘What meddlessssome inssssect issss thissss?’ it hissed, as it bucked its body in the air.
To his horror, Trent realized he was attached to the monster by the Wolfshead blade, as the sword was buried deep in the creature’s body. The more the beast shook him, the more strongly he gripped the sword, refusing to relinquish his hold as it snapped at the air around him.
‘Vala!’ shouted Gretchen, drawing the beast’s attention as she leapt into the air.
As Vala turned back to her, the girl lashed out, her claws raking the Serpent’s right eye, blinding her and making the Serpent flail with renewed fury. Trent seized his moment, ripping the sword free, the blade emerging from the snake’s body with a gout of black blood. He jumped clear of the monster, landing beside Gretchen and seizing her by the wrist.
‘We need to leave, my lady!’ he yelled over the wails of the Serpent, trying to haul the girl clear of the thrashing beast.
‘I’ll do no such thing, Redcloak,’ snarled Gretchen, tugging her wrist free of his grasp as Vala’s tail rushed past, narrowly missing them. ‘I won’t leave Whitley!’
The first of the Wyldermen now began to appear within the broken doors, spilling through the shattered entrance, blocking any escape from the hall. Sick with fear, Trent looked up just in time to catch sight of Vala’s tail flying back towards them. He ducked, avoiding the blow, but Gretchen wasn’t so lucky, and the Serpent smashed the Lady of Hedgemoor across the Great Hall. Trent watched the girl fly through the air and crash through a shuttered window, out into the night beyond.
He looked back at the monstrous snake as it rose before him, the right side of its face slick with black blood.
‘Run, child! Save Gretchen!’ shouted an older lady who knelt at the rear of the hall, cradling a brown-haired young woman in her arms.
Trent wasted no time, dashing towards the wall and diving out of the broken window the Werefox had flown through. The outrider tucked in his limbs as he went into a roll, tumbling out on to the walkway that circled the hall. Behind him, through the broken window, a monstrous, murderous roar shook the entire building. Shaking splinters and shards of glass from his pitted cloak, Trent looked up, surprised to find that he and the Werefox weren’t alone outside the hall. Stirga knelt beside the girl’s body, checking for signs of life, while Yuzhnik stood ready, waiting for advancing Wyldermen, as the ringing of stone on steel drifted through the smoke.
‘Does she live?’ Trent croaked, rising unsteadily.
‘Barely,’ replied Stirga, bending to lift her.
‘How do the Greencloaks fare?’
‘Bad doesn’t come close,’ muttered Yuzhnik, flicking blood from his axe. ‘The Wyldermen have overrun the tree.’
‘The hall,’ said Trent, nodding towards the window frame, its shutters hanging splintered on their hinges. ‘There are people in there, dying! Perhaps if we –’
‘We need to leave,’ said Stirga. ‘If you re-enter that hall we shall die alongside them.’
‘I can’t leave without Whitley. I owe it to Drew and Baron Ewan, Brenn rest his soul.’
‘Your debt is half repaid, Lionguard,’ said Stirga, setting off along the walkway, away from the sound of combat. ‘Be glad you’ve saved one of the Wereladies this night!’
Trent watched Stirga disappear through the grey mists, Gretchen’s thick red hair tumbling across his arm. Yuzhnik looked back as he followed the old sword-swallower.
‘Stick around if you like, Redcloak, but I don’t think these Wyldermen care much which Werelord you serve; if you ain’t a wild man, you’re a dead man.’
Trent was spurred into action by the giant’s words, combined with another bloodcurdling scream from the battle behind. Rushing after the Romari, he vanished into the smoke.
Duchess Rainier crouched on the floor, embracing the beaten body of Whitley. Vala snaked between the bodies of the injured courtiers, her scales reflecting the flickering torchlight, her monstrous right eye weeping dark blood. Scores of injuries laced her thick black body where her enemies had dealt her ferocious blows, but they were merely flesh wounds; it would take more than a pair of angry Wereladies and a stubborn Redcloak to bring the Wereserpent’s long and wicked life to a close.
The Wyldermen continued to climb through the rubble at the threshold, hurdling the broken timbers as they spilled into the room like an army of ants. They rifled through the bodies, tearing jewels and trinkets from the still-warm corpses, while baring their sharp, savage teeth at those who yet lived. The last knight of the Bearguard had stepped forward to repel the invaders, lashing out with sword and shield, but he was quickly overpowered by the mass of wild men. Vala rounded on the duchess, rising up before mother and daughter, hissing as she glared at her with one good eye.
>
‘Sssssso, my lady. It comesss to thisss. You and your child, thosssse dearessst to the Bearlord, bowing before me. Your husssband hasss tormented my people for many yearsss, asss hisss father and hisss father did before him.’ The Wereserpent brought her huge head down, her long pink tongue flickering in the face of the trembling Rainier. ‘I ssswear, your torment ssshall not be brief.’
‘Keep me, and me alone,’ said Rainier, finding her voice in the face of Vala’s dark threat. ‘It was I who stood by my husband’s side while the Wyldermen and the soldiers of Brackenholme fought over the Dyrewood. These people and Whitley are innocent of the crimes you believe have been committed against you. I beg you, Vala, do not harm my daughter further.’
The Serpent laughed, purple coils rolling as she thrashed one way and then the other, bringing fresh cries of terror from the survivors.
‘I need your daughter, Bearlady. I’ve lossst one of my hossstagesss already tonight,’ Vala hissed, glaring at the broken window which Gretchen had flown through. ‘No, your daughter isss jussst the bait I need. I know full well what ssshe meansss to Drew Ferran. Ssshe told me ssso much while we travelled here, poor lovessstruck child. Your daughter ssshall bring the Wolf knocking …’
‘Then spare the lives of these people!’ cried Rainier. The Serpent lunged in close again, making the duchess fall back, Whitley’s pale face close to her chest.
‘Ssspare them? Thisss isss my new home, where I ssshall entertain my people. What kind of hossst would I be if I didn’t have a well-ssstocked larder?’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Trent as he followed the Romari along the treetop bridges, away from the dwindling sounds of battle. Wooden structures loomed out of the canopy all around; staff quarters and guest chambers for visiting dignitaries most likely, reasoned Trent. Moving deeper through the boughs of the Great Oak, they had encountered only a handful of Wyldermen, dispatching them as swiftly as possible as they headed for the rear of the tree.
‘To the laundry, of course!’ called back Stirga, leaving Trent more perplexed than ever. His sword arm still throbbed from his initial encounter with Vala, and the choking smoke had left him disoriented. He stumbled after the Romari as they weaved through the giant branches.
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 17
