Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  Drew’s face drained of colour. ‘You killed Croke?’

  ‘Quiet, lad. There’s no sense in letting ’em all know my handiwork. Let ’em think it was the Rats and Crows turning on ’emselves. It was as like to ’appen, anyway.’

  ‘You murdered him?’ said Drew, Red Rufus’s confession catching him unawares.

  ‘Murder? This is war, boy. I’ve told you as much countless times. I asked what you might do, should the need arise, whether you were capable of taking a man’s life for the greater good.’

  Drew sat on the stool, his mind flying back to the events on the wall. He’d spent the time since Croke’s demise thanking the stars in the heavens that one of the Crow’s own men had triggered the bloodbath between the Vermirians and the men of Riven.

  ‘I thought that was divine intervention,’ he whispered.

  ‘I did what had to be done, what you couldn’t do. No shame in that, boy. Can’t say I blame you. It’s dirty work what sometimes needs doing to win a war.’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t do it, and I meant it,’ said Drew.

  ‘Right you did, and I spared you any more torment on that matter. You’re the one who can sleep easy with a clear conscience. One dead Vermirian archer, me swiping his bow, cloak and silver arrows; it was I who delivered the killing blow, and I alone who’ll carry that deed to my grave. You can thank me later.’

  ‘Thank you? I don’t know what to think,’ said Drew, shaking his head, caught between feelings of relief and dismay. ‘The people want me to lead them into a bright new future, Red Rufus. A new age, with the Seven Realms united under the Wolf and not the Lion. Do the people not look to me to be more than just a sovereign? Should my actions not provide a moral and spiritual example to them? By sanctioning Croke’s death, how am I any different from Leopold?’

  ‘I’m a soldier, Drew, a man of action. I don’t worry too much about what people may think of me, and you can be grateful for that fact when you count how many people still live in this sorry city when all could’ve died.’

  ‘That’s where we’re different, isn’t it?’ said Drew quietly. ‘I can see that your actions were for the greater good, but it still sits uneasy on my shoulders. Am I to thank you for what you did?’

  ‘Let it go, lad,’ said Red Rufus, waving Drew away. ‘Plaudits have always been a poor fit on my scrawny shoulders. The battle’s won, these people have escaped slaughter at the claws of the Rats and Crows. Surely you see that? If the truth of how the enemy turned on one another ever comes to light, I’ll take that burden. And do you know what? I’d do it again, in the blink of an eye. I did the ugly thing without a second thought. The guilt’s mine, Drew of the Dyrewood. I’ve protected you, boy.’

  There was no denying the truth in Red Rufus’s words. He’d done all that Drew was incapable of, sparing him the burden of a dark deed. But he still wished Red Rufus had kept his secret to himself, and let Drew live on in glorious ignorance. Perhaps this was the sign Drew had sought, confirmation that he was no king, that he didn’t truly understand what it meant to rule a nation and the hard decisions that were expected from a leader of men.

  ‘This wasn’t what I wanted,’ Drew sighed, his head slumping. He felt a hand on his shoulder, bony fingers gripping tight.

  Magister Siegfried leaned down from behind, his thin lips whispering in Drew’s ear. ‘Do not be too hard on the Hawklord, Your Highness. He may have struck the killing blow, but the scheme wasn’t of his own creation.’

  Drew looked up into Siegfried’s rheumy eyes. ‘This was your idea?’

  Siegfried’s back creaked as he crouched between the two Werelords. ‘If I had not suggested such a grave course of action to Red Rufus, there would surely have been no one to heal. Look about you, Drew: these people live on account of Croke’s death.’

  Drew nodded, the realization dawning on him that Red Rufus’s actions, no matter how shocking, had been for the good of everyone.

  The magister went on. ‘When the lives of so many depend upon your actions, you need the nerve to make those tough, sometimes dreadful decisions. It doesn’t sit comfortably with you; I understand that, truly I do. It doesn’t seem noble, does it? But that’s what it takes to be a leader. That’s what it means to be a Werelord. It’s what your father would have done.’

  Drew stood up, the wooden legs of the stool scraping against the grey stone floor. A grim smile creased his face, but his grey eyes showed no humour. ‘That’s what scares me.’

  Drew’s attention was drawn away from the Hawk and the Boar as he caught sight of a commotion at the far side of the throne room. An animated crowd of onlookers had gathered around Reinhardt and his young sibling. Making his way across the chamber, the Wolflord joined the gaggle of soldiers and courtiers who surrounded Milo. The sickly pale boy Drew had left in Windfell had been replaced by a bright, keen-eyed young therian lord. Reinhardt was now deep in conversation with his knights, a firm hand holding Milo protectively by the shoulder.

  ‘Windfell’s healers were able to work their magic on you then, Lord Milo?’ asked Drew, bowing before the young Stag. The boy’s brown eyes went as wide as dishes when he saw Drew.

  ‘They said it was you,’ said Milo excitedly, dropping on to his knee reverently, his brother’s hand falling into thin air. ‘When I awoke, the cleric said it was you who’d answered our call, Your Highness.’

  ‘Your call, as I understand it, Milo,’ said Drew, looking across at Reinhardt, who glowered shamefaced. The fact that his people’s survival was due to a child’s headstrong folly was one thing; the fact that the child was his brother just added to the Stag’s embarrassment.

  Drew reached down, offering a hand to help Milo up from the floor. ‘No need for airs and graces around me. Not until they stick that crown on my head in Highcliff, and that won’t be happening any time soon. Drew will do just fine.’

  Reinhardt took over from Drew, helping his brother to his feet. The knights he’d spoken to had already departed the hall, others following them as word spread.

  ‘Tell him what you saw, Milo,’ said Reinhardt, his jaw set grimly as he stared at the Wolflord.

  ‘Fires, Your High … Drew,’ he corrected himself. ‘Fires from the forest.’

  ‘Forest?’ asked Drew as Red Rufus limped up, keen to hear what the commotion was about.

  ‘Which forest?’ said the Hawklord.

  ‘The Dyrewood, my lord,’ said Milo.

  Drew was already running. He passed through the keep’s huge double doors, feet kicking up the slush and snow that clogged the courtyard, barging between the men and women of Stormdale as he ran towards the ravaged walls. Bounding up the stairs three at a time, he nearly flew over the parapet when he hit the top, bouncing against the shoulders of the knights who looked out to the west.

  There it was. Through the thin grey smoke that still drifted across Stormdale, far beyond the Staglords’ lands, the telltale sign of fire on the horizon. As the first rays of morning light crept over the Barebones behind, the men on the shattered battlements stared towards the thick dark clouds that gathered far away above the ancient woodland; deathly black clouds, boiling like a storm-savaged sea over the Dyrewood.

  Brackenholme was burning.

  1

  Into the Woods

  ‘There’s no way through it,’ said Stirga, staring up at the giant palisade that encircled Brackenholme. Trent paced along the wall’s edge, one hand feverishly running across each of the sturdy timber posts buried deep within the frozen earth, while the other held Gretchen slumped across his shoulder. Trapped within the woodland city: Trent could feel panic rising, his innards rolling with a sickly fire. He wiped a hand across his forehead, his palm coming away slick with sweat despite the freezing cold.

  ‘There has to be another way out of here,’ said the young outrider, glancing back at the Romari through the pall of smoke and mist. Fires burned in the boughs overhead, though the Great Oak had so far been spared the Wyldermen’s torches. The heavens burned orange
, tongues of red and yellow flames flickering and dancing against the dawn sky as the wild men unleashed their fury upon Brackenholme.

  Trent looked to Stirga for a word of encouragement as he searched for a means of escape. The fall from the Bearlord palace had been breakneck, as the laundry basket plummeted to the ground barely hindered by winch and brakes. Miraculously, Trent and Gretchen had escaped unharmed by the impact as their makeshift lift had hit the ground. A giant drift of freshly fallen snow had cushioned their fall, no doubt saving the lives of all three of them. The Romari hadn’t been so fortunate: Stirga’s forearm had been crushed, snapping like a brittle branch as they’d landed, and he now held it close to his stomach. Gretchen remained heavily concussed; the blow from the Wereserpent and her flight through the window had knocked her senseless.

  ‘There are three gates, lad,’ said the sword-swallower, wincing with discomfort as he cradled his broken arm. ‘The Dymling Road enters the city from the north and south: I believe our friends from the forest entered Brackenholme from the Southern Gate.’

  ‘They did,’ said Trent, thinking back to the screaming horde that had followed him into the city. ‘So we take the Northern Gate out, then?’

  ‘The west side of the city’s overrun. Do you want to head back into that chaos? I recommend we take the third gate, if possible.’ Stirga gestured through the gloom towards the east. ‘The Dyre Gate.’

  No noise came from that portion of the palisade wall; the sounds of battle emanated from the centre of the city, where pockets of fighting still raged.

  ‘Where does that lead?’

  ‘The Dyre Road: cuts straight through the forest in the direction of the Barebones, right into the heart of Wylderman country.’

  ‘They’re all here though, aren’t they? The wild men?’

  Stirga’s lip turned up as he shook his head.

  ‘There’re a good number assembled for Vala’s assault, but the Wyldermen number in the thousands. There are many more still in the Dyrewood, I don’t doubt it, waiting to follow their brethren into Brackenholme. It’s far from safe out there.’

  ‘So you’re saying we don’t take the Dyre Gate?’ Trent felt exasperated. His strength was fading, ebbing with every passing moment, and yet Stirga spoke in riddles. The old man would suggest one thing and then throw an obstacle in their way.

  ‘I never said that, Redcloak,’ the Romari sniped back. ‘We take the gate, but we get off the road. The Wyldermen will be using the Dyre Road as their remaining forces enter the city.’

  ‘Off the road? You mean we enter the haunted forest?’ The words caught in the back of Trent’s throat.

  ‘I’d rather face whatever is within the Dyrewood than what we may find on the road. You’ve seen what the Wyldermen are capable of: they’re monsters. But we need to be quick. Vala’s army is preoccupied. We appear to have slipped through their net for the time being. The sooner we’re out of Brackenholme the better.’

  Trent nodded. ‘We follow the perimeter wall then. The Dyre Gate it is.’

  He was about to start walking when Gretchen began to murmur on his shoulder. The sounds were distressed, and her hands pawed at Trent’s back.

  ‘Let me look at her,’ said Stirga, indicating that Trent should lay her on the snow.

  He was about to follow the Romari’s instruction when a thundering sound approached fast from the darkness behind them.

  The first of the horses appeared out of the smoke, running blind through the gloom in panic. More followed, shoulder to shoulder, following their instincts as they herded together in the chaos. Their eyes rolled in their heads as they stampeded past, snorting and whinnying, the screams of battle echoing behind them. Trent and Stirga staggered to one side for fear of being run over, Gretchen crying out as the two manhandled her clear.

  Trent stood tall, catching sight of one particular horse that stood out from its companions, its saddled back marking it out as extraordinary. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The shrill noise rose above the sound of the horses’ hooves as they charged by, slowing as they neared the palisade wall. Storm slowly emerged from the throng, her ears pricked as she trotted towards the young outrider. Trent raised his hand as the chestnut-brown thoroughbred struck his face with her own, letting loose a brief snort of joy as he ran his fingers through her mane.

  ‘Good girl,’ he whispered, smiling as he rested his sweating brow briefly against Storm’s. He shifted Gretchen from his shoulder, hoisting her into the saddle. When he raised his arms, steadying her slumped form, he felt a sudden pain in his left shoulder as shockwaves raced through his body.

  Stirga stared at Trent’s back. ‘Your Redcloak appears that bit more scarlet,’ said the sword swallower, grimacing. ‘You’ve taken an arrow there that should be removed.’

  Trent remembered now what had happened up in the treetops when he’d tried to cut the rope bridge away. He reached back, finding the arrowhead still lodged in his shoulder blade.

  ‘No time … later,’ he said as he handed Storm’s reins to Stirga’s good hand. He set off towards the herd of nervous horses. ‘We need another mount.’

  ‘You expect us just to ride out of here?’ hissed Stirga as the mare stepped nervously at his side.

  Trent barely paused to reply as he closed in on the nearest horse. ‘Something like that.’

  The Dyre Road passed between two tall timber doors, which yawned open in the jaws of Brackenholme’s gatehouse. One enormous door was forced back against the wall, its surface splintered and misshapen. The other lay twisted beside the road, hanging broken from the enormous brackets that had once held it fixed to the guard tower. A tree trunk lay beyond the palisade walls, the ram having served its purpose as the Wyldermen coordinated their attack on the Dyre Gate.

  Two dozen wild men now guarded the gatehouse, their eyes trained on the centre of Brackenholme. Scarlet feathers adorned their scalps, woven into their hair like bloody blades. Their orders were clear: if any inhabitants of the Bears’ woodland city tried to flee, they were to be cut down and shown no mercy. For too long, the Wyldermen had been forced into hiding by the Bear’s clan. With Lyssia tearing itself apart, Vala had chosen the perfect moment to strike back against the Bearlord, as the Werelords of the western realms were embroiled in civil war. The Serpent Queen had returned from her exile in the Wyrmwood and all the tribes had come together, uniting behind their goddess in the face of a common foe. Brackenholme now belonged to the Wyldermen. Vala was triumphant.

  The chieftain known as Blacktooth had been given the task of holding the Dyre Road. He sat on the timber slope of the broken gate, idly hacking at the splintered surface with his axe, eyeing the fires that burned deep inside the city. His red feathered headdress hung around his throat, and dreadlocks of filthy hair matted into his beard. He ran his tongue across the sharp, discoloured teeth that had given him his name. Blacktooth didn’t want to be left guarding a pile of broken timbers. He wanted to be in the city, leading the fight against those who had lorded it over his forest for these long cruel years. While his brothers in the Blood Feathers lounged around the foot of the Great Oak, Blacktooth was left out on the fringe, a glorified sentry.

  The goddess Vala had been welcomed by the foolish people with open arms. They’d carried her deep into the Bear city thinking she was one of their own, while her most faithful disciple, the warrior known as Darkheart, had spread the word ahead, alerting the tribes and putting the attack into action. The tribes had gathered at the chosen time, rushing the wooden town once Darkheart had opened the gates. The handful of guards on the Dyre Gate had been woefully unprepared once their city was stormed. Blacktooth’s men had already removed their bodies and were preparing to dine on their flesh tonight.

  The beating of hooves made Blacktooth look up and squint through the gloom. The Blood Feathers readied themselves, shifting weapons in their hands while a couple levelled their bows from the wall. When the mists parted to reveal a herd of horses stampeding towards them, the W
yldermen split formation and fell away on either side of the road. Blacktooth jumped down from the broken gate, stepping into the middle of the road and hefting his axe in his hands.

  ‘Get back, you mongrels,’ he shouted in the Wyld tongue. ‘They’re just horses! Bring ’em down, they’re good to eat!’

  As the first horse approached, the chieftain stood his ground. His heart raced; this was the closest he would get to battle this night. I’ll spill some blood, even if it’s that of a horse. His men whooped when they saw him in front of the charging herd, loosing their monstrous animal calls into the air. Blacktooth raised his axe and carved it into the first beast that rushed past, then swung it back the other way to catch another. The ground shook with their passing, and he let out a jubilant roar as the horses tumbled.

  His men were relaxed now, clearly enjoying the spectacle. They lowered their weapons, all eyes focused on Blacktooth’s revelry. He looked up as one brown horse leapt over another that he had just felled, and tugged his axe loose from its neck. Only this horse was different from the others. A pale rider sat astride it, a girl draped across the saddle before him. His cloak billowed like a crimson wave as he clutched the reins in one hand and a sword in the other. For the briefest moment a look of surprise passed over Blacktooth’s face before the longsword slashed down and the steel bit his face, knocking him to the ground.

  Through bloodied eyes he caught sight of another horse following the brown one, a wiry old man riding it bareback, gripping its mane in a gnarled hand. The horses continued to rush past, galloping up the road and disappearing into the forest.

  As the last horse dashed by, Blacktooth rose from the floor and turned to the Blood Feathers, his face twisting with anger. The deep cut that had been carved into his face tore open as he roared, splitting wider with each furious word.

  ‘After them!’

  2

  In Good Company