Gretchen gripped her fingers round the couple of inches of splintered wood and tugged. A fresh cry escaped the Redcloak’s lips as his flesh rose with the shaft, showing no sign of relinquishing the arrowhead. He shook his head feebly as she loosened her grip on the arrow.
‘No good,’ he said, his face turning as one blue eye settled on Gretchen. ‘Barbed … have to … cut it out …’
Gretchen shook her head furiously now.
‘I can’t, I don’t know what I’m doing! I’ll injure you further!’
The blond-haired youth closed his eyes.
‘If you don’t … I’ll die …’
A strange animal cry echoed in the forest, followed quickly by another more distant one. Gretchen looked up, her eyes wide with fear. She knew what the red-feathered Wyldermen were capable of. If the arrowhead was to be removed, it had to be done now. Gretchen reached down to the Lionguard’s weapon belt, searching for a knife. She found his sword, the pommel twisting where he lay so that her eyes landed upon it. A snarling wolfshead stared back.
‘Your sword,’ she gasped, recognizing it as the kind Drew had carried.
‘My father’s …’ the youth sighed, his eyes still closed.
Her mind full of fresh questions, she moved the sword to one side, reaching round to his other hip.
‘The Wolf,’ she said, still searching for a knife. ‘He has a blade such as this.’
A smile creased the sickly, pale Redcloak’s face. ‘This is that blade …’ he mumbled. ‘The Wolf … is my brother …’
Gretchen gasped, just as her hand closed on the leather-bound handle of a hunting knife. This was Drew’s brother? Impossible; the Redcloak had to be hallucinating. He was sick, his mind addled with fever. With a yank, Gretchen tugged the knife free. The blade was dark, one edge serrated, the other smooth like a razor. Gretchen placed a hand over the Redcloak’s back, and braced her palm against his cold flesh. Drew’s brother? She whispered a brief prayer to Brenn. Then she started cutting.
5
Followed
Drew woke with a start, as a rough hand closed over his mouth, stifling his cry. The grizzled face of Red Rufus stared down, his free hand open, a bony finger to his lips.
‘Hush,’ whispered the Hawklord. ‘We’re being followed.’
Drew nodded, raising his hand to prise Red Rufus’s dirty palm away. The falconthrope slid away, staying low to the ground as he scrambled back to his bedroll where his bow and quiver lay. Drew rolled on to his belly, following the old warrior across their tiny campsite and crawling up alongside him.
‘How many?’ he said quietly, his hand closing round Moonbrand’s grip. He paused, deciding against withdrawing the blade from its scabbard. The enchanted weapon shone like a torch on even the darkest night: the last thing he wanted to do was alert their enemy to the fact that they were wise to their movements.
‘Too soon to tell, but I heard ’em coming down the Dyre Road. Faint, but there’s someone there all right.’
The two Werelords had set up camp a short distance from the road, far enough away to remain concealed from anyone travelling the woodland avenue. Furthermore, they weren’t so deep that Red Rufus need fear attack from any number of the Dyrewood’s unholy denizens, be they beasts or even plants. The old bird’s encounter with the wych ivy days earlier had left him shaken, jumping at shadows and starting every time a branch creaked. Sleep wasn’t easy for the Hawklord, so he’d taken to sitting the night watch. Drew, on the other hand, had little difficulty sleeping within the Dyrewood. He felt strangely at home beneath the starlight in the forest. Invariably, Drew would have to secure Red Rufus into his saddle during the daylight hours, so the old Hawk could slumber as they rode, exhausted by the trials of the night.
‘I’ll take the woods,’ said Drew, pointing deeper into the forest.
‘I’ll hole up here. Minute I sees ’em …’ Red Rufus pulled back on his bowstring, fingering the flight of his arrow. He winked. Drew nodded and was gone.
Hugging trees and staying low, Drew darted through the darkness, stalking back along the forest’s edge. He allowed enough of the Wolf through to heighten his senses: his sight was instantly sharper, the world a canvas of sharp grey shapes as his night vision quickly acclimatized to the surroundings. His keen nose could pick out every smell on the wind, from the clean scent of freshly fallen snow to every animal trail that wound through the twisted undergrowth. He could pinpoint the enemy’s odour now, the distinct tang of human sweat mixed with steel. Armoured? That ruled out the Wyldermen, as the forest folk preferred hide and leather, and weapons crafted from flint. Another smell too; horses. Riders? How many?
Drew could see movement now, through the bare black trees and thick swathes of shadows. There he was: a lone figure on horseback, riding along the opposite bank of the road. He was travelling beneath the leafless canopy but avoiding the centre of the avenue, staying close to the treeline, almost invisible but for Drew’s night vision. The rider wore a dark hooded cloak, the cowl up about his face. One of the Crow’s men, perhaps? Or a straggler from the Vermirian Guard lost in the Dyrewood trying to find his way home? Drew’s keen eyesight also spotted the rags the horse wore over its hooves, further dampening any noise the rider might make as he progressed along the Dyre Road. Clever, mused Drew, but not clever enough to outwit the old Hawk.
Crouching on all fours, Drew edged nearer, cutting his way through the briars and bracken as he stalked towards the road’s edge. The route he took would allow the rider to get within bowshot of Red Rufus, and afford him the chance to launch an attack at the same moment. Each footfall was silent, the measured steps of the Wolf bringing him closer to his quarry. He dropped into a ditch that ran beside the ancient trail, the rider close now, a dozen yards or so away. Drew let his clawed hand slide around Moonbrand, dark flesh closing round the white leather grip. His jaws locked and broadened, lengthening into a muzzle, canines growing, grey hair peppering his face as his yellow eyes focused on the enemy. Drew tensed his body, leg muscles straining, ready to spring.
When the rider was parallel with him, Drew sprang forward, flying from the undergrowth directly towards him. Drew unsheathed Moonbrand at the height of his bound, the steel glowing with a pale blue light, illuminating both the Werewolf in all his monstrous glory and the foe he was about to strike. The rider half turned, his hood falling away to reveal the lean face of a boy; a boy Drew instantly recognized. The Werewolf halted the sword’s blow, keeping Moonbrand trailing at his back as he raised the stump of his left arm up defensively, crashing into the rider’s mount. The horse reared up, almost bucking off the rider, as the twang of a bowstring sounded from the forest. Drew’s reactions were lightning fast – he swung his disfigured arm up, striking the boy’s chest and propelling him out of the saddle. The arrow whipped past, hitting a tree trunk behind and quivering where it struck. The boy landed with a crash, his steel breastplate ringing as the breath exploded from his lungs.
‘Hold your fire, Red Rufus!’ cried Drew as he knelt down beside the boy, the Werewolf features slowly cracking back into place, dark hairs disappearing beneath his skin.
‘What in Brenn’s wide heaven are you doing here, Milo? You could have got yourself killed!’ He put his arm round the young Staglord and helped him sit upright, the boy wincing with each movement. ‘Easy. You may have broken something.’
The boy sat still for a moment, gathering his breath, as Red Rufus jogged towards them. The boy’s eyes were wide, shock and fear still gripping his heart after his brief dance with death. Drew could now see the full plate armour Milo wore beneath his soot-grey cloak, the heraldic device of a leaping buck shining on his breastplate.
Red Rufus couldn’t contain his anger.
‘I swear by Tor Raptor I could’ve killed ya there, boy! You got this man to thank for things not goin’ bad!’
Drew stifled a wry smile: he’d got used to hearing the Hawklord refer to him as a boy. Now in the presence of this youth, Drew had been el
evated to the lofty title of ‘man’. I’ll try to not let it go to my head, he thought with amusement, helping Milo to his feet.
‘You’re a long way from home,’ said Drew, dusting snow from the boy’s cloak. ‘You really shouldn’t be here.’
‘I had to come,’ said the Staglord. ‘It wasn’t right for none of us to aid you on your journey, after all you’ve done for Stormdale. I pledge my sword to you, Your Highness.’
‘You’re here to aid us?’ laughed Red Rufus. ‘You’re a hindrance; it’s as plain as the beak on my face! Turn round, boy, before my boot connects with your wee rump.’ Red Rufus took an intimidating step towards Milo, but the boy stood his ground, jutting his chin out at the falconthrope.
‘You don’t tell me what to do, my lord. Nobody does.’
Red Rufus nodded, pretending to be impressed by the brave talk.
‘You hear that, Wolf? Nobody tells this one what to do. I take it your brother, Reinhardt, didn’t approve of you coming?’
‘There was no point in consulting him.’
‘You might’ve been safer if you’d stayed in Stormdale, Milo,’ said Drew sympathetically. ‘Out here’s as dangerous as it gets. It’s no place for a boy.’
‘They said the same thing when I rode out to Windfell. They tried to stop me, but look what happened; I got a message to you, to both of you. You returned to Stormdale and helped us defeat Vorjavik’s army.’
Drew looked back at Red Rufus.
‘He has an annoying way of throwing logic in our faces, doesn’t he?’
‘He’s an idealistic wee grunt,’ said the Hawklord dismissively. ‘Send him packin’, I say; back to his city where they might find some use for him.’
‘I can be of use to you here,’ implored the boy. ‘I’m not going back.’
Red Rufus took a step forward, raising a hand to slap him. Drew caught his wrist before he could strike, as the boy flinched.
‘No, Red Rufus!’ snarled Drew.
The Hawklord tugged his arm free, turning to Drew. ‘Just look at ’im! He filled his britches when he thought I was gonna backhand ’im! How in Brenn’s name do ya think he’ll cope when he’s facing down a mob of Wyldermen?’
Drew looked back at Milo who was straightening himself, trying to gather his composure. His steel gauntlets jangled as he hefted them on to his hips, trying to strike an intimidating pose of his own. He was failing.
‘That platemail you’re wearing. Where’s it from?’
‘My father’s armoury,’ he said proudly. ‘This is the finest crafted Sturmish plate. The knights of Stormdale ride into battle in this very attire.’
Drew glanced down at the cumbersome metal boots and greaves the boy wore. An elaborately plumed helmet hung from the rear of his horse’s saddle.
‘You’ll have to lose it,’ Drew said simply. Both Red Rufus and Milo looked at him incredulously.
‘You’re seriously considering letting him join us?’ squawked the old Hawk, his bushy eyebrows nearly flying off his forehead. The boy ignored Red Rufus, arguing a different point with the Wolflord.
‘You would have me discard this armour, here by the roadside? Out of the question: this armour has history, this very suit belonged to my father in his youth.’
‘In his youth, you say?’ asked Drew. ‘I’d wager Duke Manfred was nearing manhood before he wore that plate, Milo. It’s a man’s suit of armour. You could break your neck if you fell over in it. You’re lucky the fall from your horse didn’t kill you!’
‘This is the armour my father –’
‘Yes, I understand, it was Manfred’s, a man very dear to my heart, but the job at hand does not require a suit of field plate. It stays behind, Milo. Either that does, or you do.’
Dark though the night was, Drew could sense the colour rising in the boy’s cheeks. He was well aware that his suggestion was an affront to anyone of noble stock, but no time was better than the present to drill the point home.
‘You may join us, but these are my conditions. Lose the armour. We travel light, and silently. You do everything Red Rufus and I tell you. You do not stray, and if you stay close at all times you may just survive to see your family again.’
No need to sugar-coat it, Drew reasoned. Red Rufus watched, his temper simmering as the Wolf continued.
‘Where we’re going, we’re likely to encounter terrible foes, witness horrific things. It’s not the place for a boy, believe me. But I know how you feel: I understand your desire to help. And I’m grateful you’ve pledged your sword to our cause.’
‘Pah,’ muttered Red Rufus, turning and stalking back towards their camp. Drew placed a hand on Milo’s shoulder.
‘Ditch the armour, Milo. Don’t dwell on this. They’re just … things. We’re not talking about life and death right now: they’re still to come.’
The boy nodded.
‘Join us at the camp when you’re ready,’ said Drew, following the Hawklord back to the bedrolls and leaving the boy to clamber out of his shining armour.
‘You’re a fool, Wolf,’ said the Hawk from where he sat. ‘You’ll get that boy killed, letting him come with us.’
‘He’s as likely to die if we send him back along the Dyre Road. You know what’s out there. There’re any number of things that might end his life, what there’s been. I’m amazed he got this far without denting his fine armour.’
‘He’s a boy.’
‘He’s got guts.’
‘Again,’ said Red Rufus, quietly now, a hint of sincerity in his voice, and something else – concern? ‘He’s a boy. This ain’t no place for him.’
Drew sat down, considering the other’s words. He was correct, this was no place for Milo, but he was here now and there was little they could do about it.
‘His best chance of survival’s sticking with us. I know he’s green, but you were too once, I’d guess.’
Red Rufus rubbed at his jaw with his bony fingers, still clearly displeased. The clanging and grating of the platemail cut through the night, causing the Hawklord to look back down the road.
‘He might wake the dead, let alone the Wyldermen, with that rumpus!’
‘If you’re unhappy about keeping an eye on him, let him be my responsibility.’
‘You know I’ll keep my eye on him, Wolf. Ain’t in my nature to do otherwise. Just don’t like the idea of havin’ a kid in tow, is all. I’ve got a bad feeling about it.’
‘I wasn’t that much older than him when I ended up in the Dyrewood, Red Rufus. A boy has to become a man some time. I was forced into growing up, and growing up fast. Manfred’s boy has made his own mind up on this, and you have to admire him for that.’
‘He’s got some stones on ’im, I’ll say that much,’ said the Hawk in reluctant agreement.
‘He survived the ride to Windfell, didn’t he? And he did succeed in acquiring our aid. He’s resourceful. He may yet surprise us,’ Drew added as the boy walked up, leading his horse. The beast trampled across the foot of Red Rufus’s bedroll, kicking it up and driving it into the dirty snow. The Hawk snarled, tugging the roll free and cursing.
‘Sorry, my lord,’ said Milo, awkwardly leading his steed away to tie it alongside those of his new-found companions. Red Rufus straightened his blanket and turned on his side, grumbling with discontent while Milo made himself at home. Drew watched the boy as he lifted a bedroll from his saddle, removing the plumed helmet at the same time. He looked at the fancy helm once before tossing it into the bushes.
‘Your breastplate,’ Drew said, noticing that the boy still wore it, the tines of the rearing buck’s antlers catching his eye beneath the folds of Milo’s cloak.
‘I figured I could keep this one thing,’ said Milo quietly. ‘It was my father’s, Your Highness.’
Drew was silent, the boy’s words striking home resonantly. He thought back to the Wolfshead blade, the only thing he’d taken with him when he’d fled the Ferran farmhouse so many moons ago. Where is it now? Still in Sorin’s hand? He nodded, fo
rcing a smile across his sad face.
‘Unfurl your bedroll, Milo. Sit yourself down. And it’s Drew. No cause for titles out here.’
‘He can keep calling me “my lord”,’ said Red Rufus from where he lay, not looking back. Drew smiled at the cantankerous old Hawk. ‘And tell ’im to not get comfy. We’ve got one fresh pair of eyes now: it’s the boy’s turn to watch.’
Drew glanced across at Milo, and saw that the boy recognized the note of reluctant acceptance in the Hawklord’s miserable voice. Drew winked, and the boy smiled back.
6
Red Snow
A lifetime of hunting had not prepared Bergan for this moment. Throughout his long years he’d enjoyed numerous hunts, both through his own lands and those of his neighbours. The Staglords of the Barebones had been famous for hosting lavish events through their foothills, inviting Werelords from across the Seven Realms to partake in the sport. One could expect the hunt to last for weeks, with all the accompanying festivities and feasting. Bergan’s own hunts often involved the chasing of the notorious Dyrecat, an enormous feline that was unique to the Woodland Realm. Therians would travel from as far south as Cape Gala to join the chase, the beast providing a match for any Werelord. When Leopold took the throne, the king outlawed the Dyrecat hunt – a noble beast to the felinthrope – leaving their numbers to grow throughout the Dyrewood. Now Bergan was the one being hunted, and he wasn’t enjoying the experience.
The Bearlord’s feet ploughed up the snow as he traversed the slope, finding the fresh prints of those who ran ahead of him. Lean as he was after being starved beneath the earth, he was still a big man, and his heavy legs crumbled the packed ice with each step, causing him to stumble. His hands hit the snow, searching for extra purchase as he followed the girl ahead. Pick stopped, looking back and offering a hand.
‘Keep going, child!’ said the Bearlord, urging the girl to move. Pick obliged, following Captain Fry as the Sturmlander picked a path up the steep slope towards the summit. Bergan glanced at Carver, Hector and the Boarguard behind. Beyond the Ugri warriors he spied their enemy, spread out in a line, closing all the while. He gulped, his frostbitten lips cracking.
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 22
