Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘This way,’ Stirga cried, catching sight of a rope bridge. Wooden planks ran its length, vanishing into the pitch black night.

  The rope bridge swung as they dashed across, straining under the weight of the hurrying men, especially the heavy footfalls of Yuzhnik. The shouts of the Wyldermen were growing louder now: no doubt they’d found their slaughtered companions beside the hall, with no sign of green-cloaked casualties. They were being hunted.

  Trent was the last to reach the other side of the bridge, in time to hear the enemy shouts from back the way they’d come. Yuzhnik turned, but Trent pushed him on, withdrawing the Wolfshead blade from his scabbard.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ he said, shoving the big man hard. ‘Keep going and get her out of here. I’ll do what I can.’

  Yuzhnik looked at him hard for a moment, before nodding. ‘You’re a good man, Redcloak.’ He turned and was gone.

  Trent hacked at the first of the two rope handrails, the sword bouncing off the tough hemp. He could hear footsteps now, bare feet slapping against the planks as the Wyldermen dashed across. Cursing, he gripped his father’s weapon in both hands, roaring as he brought it down. The steel cut a thick cleft in the rope, fraying it instantly. He chopped down again, and this time the sword cut clean through the rope. Cries went up in the darkness as the bridge swung, one scream fading towards the ground far below.

  Shifting position, Trent struck at the other handrail, the blade biting deep into the hemp. He tugged at it, finding to his horror that it was snagged, the rope twisting and threatening to tear the sword from his grasp. He held tightly to the handle, just as a first volley of arrows bounced off the deck around him. One quivered in the wood at his feet, the shaft humming as its barbed flint head bit deep into the timber. They’re shooting blind, but all it takes is one lucky shot …

  He braced his foot against the rope, screaming as he finally tore the blade free. He stepped up once more, catching sight of a steady stream of Wyldermen traversing the bridge, weapons gripped between their jaws, one hand over the other on the handrail, steadily getting closer. More arrows whined through the air, one hitting a wild man in the back and sending him cartwheeling off the bridge, as others rained down around Trent. He spun on the spot as one struck him in the left shoulder, sending him to his knees. The initial pain was a knuckle punch, like the dead arms Drew and he had traded as young boys. The agony would come later, no doubt.

  Trent stood, raising the Wolfshead blade in one hand and slashing down one last time. The hemp tore apart like a cobweb in a stiff breeze, sending the Wyldermen into a screaming panic on the bridge. Some tumbled from the walkway, clutching at the torn rope, snatching, missing, while others dropped to the planks fearfully. The bridge shook, and the wild men were still for a moment as they steadied themselves. Then they began to advance once more, crawling on their bellies, toes gripping the gaps in the planks, filthy hands hauling them nearer.

  Trent ran.

  ‘Stirga!’ he cried. ‘Yuzhnik!’

  ‘This way, boy!’ came the call of the old sword-swallower as Trent stumbled through the open door of a thatched timber building. Huge barrels lined the walls of the longhouse, and the smell of soap and perfumes was thick in the air, almost as choking as the smoke outside.

  ‘The bridge rails are cut, but they’re still coming,’ he said. Staggering through the structure, he caught sight of the two men standing round a big wicker basket, bound around its edge by a thick net of rope. A winch was fixed to the wall on one side of it, and lengths of rope ran through the mechanism, while a large hatch stood open over the other, empty space beyond. The basket reminded Trent of the coracles the Cold Coast fishermen used, big enough for two men maybe.

  Two men.

  He looked up, and the Romari shared his look of concern.

  ‘Get in,’ said Stirga. ‘I’ll pass her to you.’

  ‘You get in,’ said Trent. ‘You can take her.’

  ‘The two of you stop bickering,’ said Yuzhnik, taking Gretchen in his arms. ‘Both of you get in, and I’ll hand her across.’

  ‘But what about you?’ said Stirga. ‘I’m not leaving you.’

  ‘Who are we fooling, Stirga? I’d probably break that thing if there was only me in it. Get in, you sprats. Take the girl.’

  Trent climbed in, but Stirga remained standing.

  ‘I shall stay with you, Yuzhnik. I won’t leave a fellow Romari to dance alone, especially one who’s like a brother to me.’

  The giant passed the girl into Trent’s arms, and the young man was unable to watch as the friends quarrelled over who should stay or go.

  ‘You have ballads to write and songs to sing, brother,’ said Yuzhnik, gripping Stirga’s shoulder and giving him a firm squeeze. ‘Let me give you a tale to tell.’

  The two men embraced briefly, as the yells of Wyldermen went up at the front of the longhouse. Stirga clambered into the basket as Yuzhnik took hold of the wheel, winching it off the ground. He gave it a kick, sending it swinging over the hatch.

  ‘Sing the songs for me, Stirga,’ bellowed Yuzhnik. ‘Make the ballads glorious, old friend!’

  The giant’s muscles rippled as he swiftly turned the wheel. The basket lurched into life, its descent painfully slow. Trent caught sight of the Wyldermen, flooding through the laundry as the basket disappeared through the hatch. One of the wild men had covered the distance already, leaping forward, knife raised, before Yuzhnik backhanded him with his forearm. With his other arm he kept yanking the wheel, the pulley screeching as the rope ran through it.

  Both Trent and Stirga watched in horror as the Wyldermen poured over Yuzhnik, a mass of filthy arms and stabbing blades raining down. The winch stopped, the wheel abandoned, as the Romari fell beneath a pile of assailants. The basket swung wildly five feet below the longhouse, dangerously exposed. With a roar, the bloodied giant fought back, peeling the Wyldermen off like leeches. His axe scythed through them, scattering and dropping them where they stood. More came in their place, stepping over their fallen brethren, charging fearlessly towards the berserk Romari.

  One of the Wyldermen appeared over the hatch, reaching across with his serrated flint knife, sawing at the rope that held the laundry basket. Trent tried to stand, as the basket tipped precariously, threatening to dump the three of them out into the void. The Wolfshead blade was in one hand, his other gripping the rope as he rose. With great effort, his arm burning with the strain, Trent thrust upwards, and the sword caught the wild man clean through the throat, his knife tumbling into the basket from his limp hand.

  Yuzhnik was wrestling with another brute now, this one bigger than any he’d encountered. The Wylderman’s long black hair hung across his face, but Stirga recognized him.

  ‘Rolff!’ he cried in horror, as the wild man laughed, revealing sharp, savage teeth. The black-haired warrior’s knife plunged into Yuzhnik’s thigh, dropping the Romari to the floor.

  ‘There never was a Rolff,’ spat the tall tribesman, whipping his blade free, ready to strike again.

  Yuzhnik jabbed upwards with his axe, the steel head catching the Wylderman in the jaw and sending him back. Pulling himself to one knee, Yuzhnik looked at Trent and his friend.

  ‘Your turn to hold on, Redcloak,’ he whispered, as Trent wound his left arm round the rope.

  Yuzhnik’s axe hit the wheel mechanism, sparks flying as the cogs and brakes shattered and the basket suddenly plummeted with shocking speed. Darkness swallowed the giant’s face as the basket and its fragile cargo hurtled towards the ground hundreds of feet below.

  10

  Dark Deeds

  It would be dawn soon. Drew sat stiff in the saddle of the white charger, the reins looped around the stump of his left arm, the stars fading in the sky above Stormdale. The horse had been a gift from Baron Hoffman, the oldest of the surviving Staglords. It was a small gesture of gratitude on Hoffman’s part for the courage the young Wolflord had shown in the defence of the city.

  The horse stood between the tow
ers of the ruined gatehouse that marked the entrance into Stormdale. With the city still smoking at his back, Drew’s attention was on the battlefield beyond. The routed enemy army was gone, the scene of their siege a wasteland of abandoned tents and war machines; campfires still burned, and equipment and weapons had been left behind in their hasty retreat. Riderless horses wandered through the encampment, pulling at dumped backpacks and trying to worry their contents loose. The moans of the injured and dying drifted through the darkness, as the soldiers of Vermire and Riven cried out for aid. None was forthcoming, at least not presently; Magister Siegfried and his healers were preoccupied with tending the wounded of Stormdale. If any enemy soldiers survived the night there might be compassion in the morning. Drew turned Bravado round, the horse proving pleasingly responsive, and set off back up the main avenue, returning to the castle.

  He passed squads of civilians led by Greycloaks, picking their way through the streets, meticulously searching through every building. The odd fugitive from Riven or the Vermirian Guard was found hiding, only to be captured and delivered to the keep for questioning. The knights of Stormdale had already gleaned a good deal of information from their prisoners: the greatest mass of the Catlords’ forces was gathered in the Badlands and the Dalelands. Onyx himself was overseeing command while Field Marshal Tiaz, the Tigerlord, led the army in Omir. Drew hoped that the Hawklords had arrived in Azra in time to assist King Faisal against the staggering enemy force that surrounded his city. He still hoped he might see his friends again, feeling bound to them by their escape from the volcanic island of Scoria and their shared experiences in the gladiatorial arena of the Furnace.

  As Drew passed through the gatehouse into the castle, he could see the now familiar figure of Hoffman working alongside survivors, collecting the dead from where they’d fallen in the snow-encrusted courtyard. The white powder was stained dark with the blood of the fallen, men of Stormdale, Vermire and Riven lying alongside one another. While the dead of the Barebones were placed tenderly on to carts to be transported to Brenn’s Temple in the city, the enemy’s bodies were thrown on to a great pyre. The blackest smoke billowed from the corpses of the Crowlords.

  Hoffman passed orders on to the work party before staggering across to Drew, taking Bravado’s reins from him. The Stag looked tired, as old as Magister Siegfried, but he wasn’t about to rest while there was work to be done.

  ‘How did he handle?’

  ‘Grand,’ said Drew, swinging down from the saddle. ‘He’s quite a beast, isn’t he?’

  ‘I rode his father into battle many years ago alongside Wergar,’ Hoffman said, patting the white horse’s nose. ‘He’s from good stock, a long bloodline of warhorses. It’d be cruel to keep heaving my fat rump on to his back, regardless of his undoubted strength.’

  Drew smiled as he clapped the horse’s flank. ‘Your generosity is appreciated, my lord, but entirely unnecessary.’

  ‘Tish!’ said Hoffman gruffly. ‘You helped us win this battle, lad. Bravado is a drop in the ocean compared to what we owe you.’

  Drew blushed and bowed before departing to the keep. The throne room had been converted into a temporary house of healing, with cots filling the floor, injured soldiers and civilians being tended to by Magister Siegfried’s surgeons. Even the wounded managed to call Drew’s name as he made his way across the crowded floor, waving to him and clasping his hand in thanks as he passed by.

  Why do I deserve such adulation? It’s you who’ve fought so valiantly for your homeland; your fallen brothers and sisters who have given the greatest sacrifice.

  Drew smiled awkwardly, pausing at times to listen to what the survivors had to say. He crouched beside their beds, assisting surgeons as they administered medicines and changed dressings, keeping those with the gravest injuries occupied as the healers worked their magic.

  To the rear of the throne, below the tall stained-glass windows, the wounded Werelords were being attended. Mia lay on a bed, three ladies-in-waiting nursing her, the girl’s eyelids fluttering as she remained in a troubled sleep. The blow to her head she’d taken atop the Lady’s Tower had caused Reinhardt’s family much concern: Mia was the youngest of Duke Manfred’s children and his only daughter, guaranteeing her a special place in the hearts and hopes of the people of Stormdale. Siegfried had done all he could, tending her bruised temple and casting healing cantrips over her. As sweet-smelling herb candles burned low around her bedside, the child’s future remained in the balance.

  Brenn watch over her, Drew prayed silently. The girl had not even seen ten summers; he hoped she would live to see many more.

  Two of the other Staglords, the sons of Hoffman, lay on pallets on the dais, awake and talking. Following their father they’d sallied forth, chasing the enemy beyond the walls of the keep, striking down the men of Vermire and Riven as they fought one another. The injuries the Staglords and Greycloaks had sustained had ensured that Siegfried had been kept busy through the night. The brothers nodded to Drew as he stepped past them towards a wicker chair by the window.

  Red Rufus sat upright, having turned down Siegfried’s repeated offers of a bed; the grizzled Hawklord wasn’t in the habit of turning others out of their cots for what he called ‘his feathered behind’. The old Hawk’s fight with the Crowlords had been epic, and his injuries had been sustained by falling through the castle roof in a shower of splintered tiles. Scree was the only surviving Crowlord, limping away through the sky, home to Riven.

  One of Red Rufus’s wings was broken, but the old Hawk would accept only the minimum of help from Siegfried. He took healing draughts, chewed herbs, even tolerated the prayers of the priest of Brenn, but he wouldn’t let the surgeons lay a finger on him.

  Drew couldn’t help but grin at the belligerent Hawk.

  ‘So, how are you liking your father’s sword, lad?’ asked Rufus, wincing as he shifted uncomfortably. Drew’s hand drifted over Moonbrand’s white orb pommel.

  ‘I might have said any blade was as good as the next before last night, but I’d have been mistaken.’ Drew pulled up a stool and sat down beside Red Rufus. ‘You knew it could do that?’

  ‘The white flame? Aye, boy. I saw Wergar wield it during many a moonlit battle. When the heavens shine down on it, there’s no deadlier sword in all the Seven Realms. That blade could cleave the mountain Tor Raptor in two.’

  Drew caught sight of Reinhardt embracing a grey-cloaked youth from across the courtroom. The hug was fierce, the boy’s feet rising from the floor as the Staglord held him in his arms.

  ‘I see he’s recovered,’ said Red Rufus.

  ‘Who?’ said Drew, trying to see the hooded youth’s face as Reinhardt held him close.

  ‘The Stag’s young brother,’ said the Hawklord.

  Drew squinted, catching sight of the boy’s face as the hood fell away. There was no mistaking him: they’d met Milo in Windfell, where the young Stag had delivered his plea for help from the returned Hawklords, a moment too late as the wings had already taken flight. He was a brave boy, having ridden to find help against his brother’s express command. It was good to see the boy well again; when Drew and Red Rufus had left him in Windfell to rush to Stormdale’s aid he’d been in a bad way, having been the target of Vermirian archers.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Drew, returning his attention to the Hawklord.

  ‘Like I’ve been in a fight with a Bearlord,’ winced Red Rufus. ‘Don’t mind me; there are others ’ere who are in far greater need of old Siegfried’s attention than me.’

  At the mention of his name, the magister looked up from where he was tending one of Hoffman’s sons.

  ‘We’ve much to be thankful for,’ said Drew. ‘The Staglord and his healers have stitched up most of the wounded, and his cantrips and herb lore appear to be working wonders throughout the castle.’

  ‘He’s no Stag,’ scoffed Red Rufus.

  Drew looked perplexed, glancing back to Siegfried as he helped the Staglord to settle.

 
‘He’s a Boarlord, ain’t he?’ added Rufus. ‘Like many of them magister folk throughout Lyssia. He was sent here many years ago once he’d learned his craft. Stayed in Stormdale ever since.’

  ‘He’ll know my friend Hector then.’

  ‘Huth’s son? Aye, he will. He’d be his uncle – he was brother to the old baron.’

  Drew stared back at Siegfried, suddenly recognizing the family resemblance between the old man and the young magister he’d left behind in Highcliff so long ago. Drew remembered what he’d heard about the Boarlords serving as court magisters throughout Lyssia, and Siegfried’s presence suddenly made more sense.

  ‘Has he turned his back on Redmire then?’

  ‘They all do, once they take their positions within court. They’re like monks, these magisters: married to their magicks. One of his cousins used to be magister to Griffyn in Windfell. Sorry old fool got the chop when Leopold hit us with his wrath. Fished his body out of the Steppen River the following spring.’

  Drew still struggled when confronted with the dead king’s atrocities. Leopold’s acts of violence against his subjects were a constant reminder of how not to rule, should Drew ever take his rightful seat on the throne.

  ‘We’ve a lot to be thankful for,’ said Drew, thinking back to the night’s events. ‘Brenn was certainly watching over us. Who knows what might have happened had that Vermirian archer not put an arrow in Croke.’

  Red Rufus patted Drew’s knee with a gnarled hand. ‘Quite right,’ chuckled the Hawklord sarcastically. ‘Where would we have been, had Brenn not graced us with his attention?’

  ‘I’d be mindful of what you say,’ said Drew uncomfortably. ‘Those’d be blasphemous words to the ears of Brenn-fearing folk, Red Rufus.’

  Red Rufus suddenly leaned forward. ‘It was I who plugged the old Crow with that rotten silver arrow,’ he hissed.