Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  The hollers of the Wyldermen echoed through the forest, piercing the once silent Dyrewood like a knife through the heart. The din had grown gradually, having been faint at first to Drew’s ears, before rising in tempo and fervour as they neared. The wild men weren’t coming for them; these warriors were hunting, closing in on their kill. He remembered the noise from his time in the wild, scared and alone, tracked all too frequently by the Wyldermen as they caught his scent on the wind. Only Drew’s cunning and a lot of luck had prevented them from ever concluding their hunt, and the Werewolf had always evaded them in the nick of time. No, they were hunting something else this cold, grey afternoon.

  ‘Do we leave ’em to it?’ asked Red Rufus, squinting into the forest from atop his horse. Milo’s mount sidled anxiously, the young rider equally ill at ease.

  ‘Sounds like there’s a great many of them,’ added the boy. ‘Maybe we just continue on our way?’

  Drew looked to the others, managing a hard smile.

  ‘The boy’s right,’ said Red Rufus. ‘Whatever they’re hunting, does it matter to us? Our task’s to get to Brackenholme. Distraction like this could be the death of us.’

  Milo nodded, glad to hear his suggestion hadn’t been dismissed by the Hawklord as so often was the case.

  ‘I need to know what – or who – they’re hunting,’ said Drew.

  ‘I knew you were going to say that, lad,’ said the Hawk, rolling his eyes as he unslung his bow. He nodded towards the forest from where the cries were coming. ‘Lead on then, young Wolf.’

  The three jumped down from their horses, securing them to a tree before setting off into the forest. Drew glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see the Hawk and Stag following. He dipped his head, avoiding the branches and vines as he began to jog. The shouts of the wild men were close, maybe a hundred yards or so away through the forest. He could hear the undergrowth snapping as they forced their way through it, stealth abandoned now the kill was close.

  The Wyldermen might simply be hunting an animal, but Drew doubted it. This was almost certainly a hunt for a human: be it one of their own or someone else, the Wolflord needed to discover the truth. He let the beast in as he ran, the transformation fluid with each step. His feet fell silently on the forest floor, the only sound that of his bones cracking within, reshaping beneath his shifting skin.

  Dark shapes ran across his field of vision, two, then another, flitting between the trees as they pursued their target. Drew changed the angle of his run, hoping Red Rufus and Milo could follow, but reluctant to wait. More of the wild men appeared, another pair further away, a handful more behind the first three. None had noticed Drew shadowing them: their focus was entirely upon their prey. Drew loped along the floor, using his clawed right hand for extra purchase as he tore between the trees. His sword bounced in the scabbard on his hip, the gemstone pommel bouncing into his ribs with every stride. He’d overtaken the Wyldermen now, but kept up his pace as he caught sight of their fleeing target. At first glance Drew thought him a boy, only realizing his mistake when the man glanced back, exhaustion etched on his leathery face, thin grey hair slick on his forehead.

  Suddenly, the man came to a halt in a clearing, bending double to breathe in great gasps of air. A man of Brackenholme perhaps? Most of his clothes were torn from his body, and a tattered cloak hung from his shoulder. Drew slowed, now fully transformed, watching from less than ten yards away, completely hidden in the thick undergrowth. The wiry chap stood upright, staring at the forest back the way he’d come. Keep running, old man! Don’t give up!

  But the old man hadn’t given up, Drew quickly realized. He winced, throwing his torn cloak back, reaching his left hand awkwardly to his hip where he took hold of the basket hilt of a rapier. Quick as a flash the blade was out. The man’s right arm lay limp at his side, apparently broken. The torn clothes were more familiar to Drew now. He recognized them from his brief encounters with the man’s people: Romari, a traveller. He carried a stringed musical instrument on his back, such as a minstrel might use. The old man stood poised, legs apart, one behind the other, his chest turned sideways towards his advancing enemy, offering a smaller target for the wild men to hit. The rapier extended outwards: a gentleman’s weapon, Drew recalled, shocked by the absurdity of an old man surrounded by Wyldermen striking a fencing pose.

  The tribesmen piled out from between the trees, ten in all, bumping into one another and spreading out. Red feathers adorned their heads and shoulders, bone necklaces jangling as they raised their axes and spears. Their skin was caked with oily mud, which covered them from head to toe. They hissed at the old Romari, who remained poised and elegant, as an assured calm settled over him. If you’re going to die, then die in style. Drew had to admire the fellow, facing death so gracefully. You’ve had a long life, old timer. Your days may be numbered, but not this one.

  Before the Wyldermen could launch their attack, the undergrowth was ripped apart as the Werewolf leapt at them. Moonbrand was out, and the gloomy clearing glowed with a cold blue light. The tribesmen wailed, and even the old Romari looked fearful for a moment at the sight of the lycanthrope. The blade sliced down, cutting the first Wylderman across the belly before Drew ripped it out and slashed another. The Werewolf took hold of a wild man’s arm in his jaws, snapping it instantly. Drew kicked out, his leg sending the next man flying, ribs crumpling with the impact. A pair of arrows whistled through the clearing in rapid succession, finding the exposed backs of two more and felling them on the spot. Suddenly the odds had swung against the men of the forest.

  The Romari darted forward, jabbing his rapier awkwardly with his injured arm. One of the wild men went with him, trading blows, battering away at the old man with a heavy axe and sending him stumbling. Another red-feathered Wylderman jumped on Drew’s back, his knife glancing off the side of the Werewolf’s head, while the remaining two jabbed with their spears. Drew felt one of the flint-headed weapons cut into his chest, his thick, lycan ribs deflecting major injury though he still felt pain. He howled, snapping his head back, trying to reach the Wylderman who clung on to him, an arm wrapped about his muscular throat. The knife went up again, and the blade bit into Drew’s sword arm, so Moonbrand clattered to the icy ground.

  Another lunge from the spearmen hit Drew’s thigh, causing him to drop to one knee. His right hand was free now, while his left tried to parry the spears. He reached up, bloody, grey fingers snatching at the fellow on his back. He grabbed him by the shoulder, his claws crunching through flesh, making the brute release his hold. As the first spearman came in, Drew spun where he crouched, whipping the Wylderman off his back and into the flint-headed weapon. The bone necklace rattled round the wild man’s throat as the spear disappeared into his back. The second spearman took his chance at the distraction, his weapon speeding down towards the unguarded Werewolf.

  Milo’s sword slashed down, cutting the spear in two, splintering it in the Wylderman’s hands before he could strike the Werewolf. This left the tip of the young Staglord’s weapon buried in the hard earth. The Wylderman wasted no time, dropping the splintered spear to leap upon the fearful boy. Sharp, filed teeth snapped at Milo’s face as he tried to hold the man back, but his opponent was too strong. The wild man’s mouth yawned open as he brought his teeth down. The boy screamed, just as the man went limp. He landed lifelessly on top of Milo, an arrow protruding from his back. Red Rufus stepped out of the trees, nodding at the boy.

  The last Wylderman stood facing the trio, his eyes flitting from Werewolf to boy to Hawklord. Drew noticed that the warrior’s mouth was slick with blood, his sharp teeth coated with the syrupy red liquid as he grinned. The wild man let out a cry, hollering to the heavens as he raised his axe and charged at the lycanthrope. Drew brought Moonbrand back, about to run the man through, but he was spared his attack. The Wylderman’s legs flew up before him as an arrow disappeared into his chest, sending him to the forest floor with a thump, his bloodied axe landing beside him.

  Drew pick
ed up the weapon, inspecting the gore on the flint head, his body slowly returning to human form. He looked back at his companions, expecting to see wounds but finding none. He brought his gaze back round, searching for the Romari in the clearing. They found him lying at the foot of a tree, his body resting in a cradle of exposed roots. His broken lute lay on the floor, his twisted, battered rapier cast aside. The old man’s chest had been opened by an axe blow; his shirt was dark and wet, while his neck was torn, the flesh ripped from his throat. To Drew’s amazement, the minstrel coughed, a splutter of bloody bubbles appearing on his lips.

  ‘He lives,’ said Drew, crouching beside him.

  The old Romari looked up, his jaw slack with wonderment as the lycanthrope’s dark hair receded, his body shrinking in size as the Wolflord changed from beast to young man. Red Rufus and Milo joined Drew on either side of him.

  ‘Drew Ferran?’ gasped the old man, his voice a whisper.

  ‘You know me?’ said Drew, taking the old man’s battered hand in his.

  ‘I know of you: who doesn’t?’ he said, shifting awkwardly.

  ‘Rest now,’ Drew said. ‘The Wyldermen are dead. You know my name, but I’m all the poorer for not knowing yours.’

  ‘Stirga,’ he spluttered. ‘But time is short. Brackenholme lies sacked. Your friends, Whitley and Gretchen; they’re in grievous danger.’

  Drew’s grey eyes burned with a sudden yellow fire as the Wolf threatened to return.

  ‘You know Whitley and Gretchen? They’re in Brackenholme?’

  ‘They’re dear to me. The Wolf is sacred to our people, my lord; a friend of the Wolf is a friend of ours.’

  Drew was sick with worry, the idea of Whitley and Gretchen being in danger making his head spin. So many questions to ask poor Stirga, but the old Romari’s time was nearly up.

  ‘How did the Wyldermen come to launch an attack on Brackenholme?’ asked Red Rufus.

  ‘The Wereserpent,’ sighed Stirga, his eyes struggling to focus on Drew. ‘Vala.’

  ‘Vala?’ whispered Drew incredulously. He was transported briefly back to his encounter with the Wereserpent in the Wyrmwood, when the monstrous therian had nearly killed him and his friends through coil, tooth and poison.

  ‘The city burns. The Wyldermen … it belongs to them now!’

  Drew trembled with fear. ‘And my friends? What of Whitley and Gretchen?’

  The Romari twitched his lips, his face draining of colour. Milo dropped to his knees, fishing his waterskin from his backpack and pouring water between the old man’s red lips. ‘Lady Whitley is a captive of Vala. Lady Gretchen … got out of there, with the aid of a Redcloak.’

  ‘A Redcloak?’ said Drew.

  ‘Said he was a Wolf’s man,’ said Stirga, fading quickly now. Drew squeezed his hand, massaging his knuckles, willing the poor fellow to stay with them. ‘Played his part … got us out, and more,’ added the old man.

  ‘These Wyldermen, Stirga,’ said Drew, staring at the slain warriors. ‘Were they all daubed this way, wearing clay and the like?’

  ‘Some, my lord.’

  ‘It’s Drew,’ he said. ‘Please, just Drew.’

  The Romari trembled, a cough rattling out of his savaged chest, his eyelids fluttering, threatening to close.

  ‘Take the lute, Drew,’ Stirga whispered. ‘Was supposed … to write ballad … ballad of Yuzhnik … yet the long sleep comes …’

  Drew leaned close, his voice quiet as he brought his lips to the Romari’s ears. ‘I shall see to it, Stirga, I swear to Brenn.’

  When he knelt upright, he looked back at the old minstrel. His eyes were closed, his head resting upon his shoulder as if asleep. Drew pulled his hand free from Stirga’s death-grip and swept his fingers across the old man’s forehead, brushing the thin grey hair away from his brow.

  ‘We’ll bury him,’ Drew said. He didn’t know the man, had exchanged just a few stolen words with the stranger, yet he felt a pain in his heart as deep as a knife blow. He had lost a loved one, though he’d never known him.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Red Rufus, as Milo simply stared at the slain Romari.

  Drew glanced to one side at the nearest Wylderman body, reaching across and scraping a clump of clay from his flesh.

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ he said, rolling the mud and feather in his hand. ‘And it may yet get us an audience with Vala.’

  8

  The Camp of the White Bear

  Though not the palace of Icegarden, the Shepherds’ Hall was as welcome a sight for the travellers as any they might have stumbled across on the frozen mountain slopes. Hall was too grand a word to describe it, but it was a palace compared to the cold outdoors. Ordinarily, the squat stone structure served as a shelter for the brave folk who worked the Whitepeaks, offering protection against storms when the wind and ice became too much to endure. The cottage was crowded now, with the White Bear’s council joining him around the fire-pit as he welcomed his guests. Despite the fire’s warmth, the atmosphere remained chill.

  ‘You’ve got some nerve, cousin,’ said Duke Henrik, glowering across the flames at Bergan.

  ‘We had nowhere else to go, nobody left to turn to,’ replied the Lord of Brackenholme curtly, the words catching in his throat. ‘Your kindness is greatly appreciated, Your Grace.’

  The two Bearlords were as different as chalk and cheese. Bergan’s broad frame, though wasted by the trials he’d undergone, still marked him as a warrior among men. His thick red beard, thinning from malnourishment and peppered with grey, covered his entire jaw and throat, and his mouth was hidden beneath whiskers. Henrik was a good foot taller than his cousin, and lean with it. He was clean-shaven, his white hair cropped close to his scalp, a crown of plain, Sturmish steel sitting tightly around his temples. His skin was smooth and unblemished, as opposed to the craggy, weather-beaten flesh that puckered Bergan’s face. The only feature they shared was the broad, flat nose that dominated their faces, and their eyes above locked intently upon one another.

  ‘I can hardly turn you away under the circumstances now, can I?’

  ‘So I’m not forgiven for whatever crimes you thought me guilty of so long ago?’

  Henrik paused, considering his words, before raising a finger at Bergan.

  ‘I hope your conscience gives you punishment enough for betraying Wergar. By letting the Lion into Westland, you might as well have opened the gates of Highcliff yourself for Leopold to take as his own. The poison that’s spread across the Seven Realms can be traced directly back to your cowardice, cousin.’

  ‘It wasn’t cowardice!’ said Bergan. ‘It was the only course of action! Wergar’s warmongering in Omir had left his homeland near defenceless. Highcliff was Leopold’s for the taking: I could have fought tooth and claw to hold back the Lion, but it would’ve been for naught.’

  ‘You could have at least tried. A valiant death might’ve been more honourable than a shamed existence.’

  Bergan growled, a rumbling sound that rattled through his expanding ribcage. When he spoke, his chunky white incisors were menacingly enlarged.

  ‘Queen Amelie and her children were already Leopold’s hostages. The Bastians held Highcliff. They offered me terms, which I passed on to Wergar. How was I to know that Leopold would renege on his word?’

  ‘Those children were butchered by the Lion, just as Wergar was,’ said Henrik, the fire reflecting in his glaring eyes.

  Bergan rose suddenly, feet stamping and sending up a shower of sparks from the fire-pit. He towered over the flames, and Henrik leaned back as the Brown Bear of the Dyrewood threatened to explode in a therian rage. The White Bear’s officers instantly unsheathed their weapons, ready to defend their liege, while Carver and Fry had their own blades ready. Hector and his Boarguard took a step away, eyes flitting between both groups, wary of what might happen. Duke Henrik raised his hand, palm out, calling his officers to halt.

  ‘A day doesn’t pass when I don’t think of them! I loved Wergar as a brother, Amelie as a sister and
those children as my own!’ Bergan roared, tears blinding him as he punched his chest. ‘Don’t talk to me about the madness of Leopold and the crimes of yesterday, Henrik!’

  He faltered where he stood, looking into the fire, his mind drifting to the past. The flames danced, sending him back to the throne room in Highcliff and the fire that had devoured the Wolf’s children.

  ‘I still see their faces,’ he whispered.

  Henrik motioned with his hand, encouraging his cousin to be seated again, and the room grew calm once more as swords returned to sheaths and soldiers relaxed. Bergan collapsed down, his gaze still locked on the flames, as Henrik spoke quietly.

  ‘Please sit, cousin. It’s clear the truth weighs heavy on your shoulders. The deeds of yesterday will haunt us all long into tomorrow.’

  The room descended into silence momentarily, the only sounds coming from outside as Sturmish troops went about their business. Bergan slowly regathered his senses, the doubts and denials that had haunted him fresh in his mind. He’d tried to convince himself that his actions had been just, for the good of the Seven Realms. He still didn’t know whether he’d been fooling himself. Perhaps he had been a coward. Perhaps he had persuaded Wergar to surrender to Leopold simply to protect his people in Brackenholme against the Lion’s rage. The more he thought about it, the more questions arose, as was always the case. There wasn’t one particular reason for handing the Wolf over to the Lion: there had been many. But the horror that followed had been entirely unexpected. One thing was certain: Bergan would never trust a Catlord again.

  ‘You’ve stepped in from the cold then?’ said the Lord of Brackenholme finally. ‘You fight by our side?’

  ‘I fight for Sturmland,’ said Henrik, his mood less antagonistic after his cousin’s show of remorse.

  Bergan bit his lip. Was that all he wanted? Did he need to see me weep for what I’ve done?

  ‘All the letters the Wolf Council sent you, and no reply? Couldn’t you see we needed you to fight the Bastians?’