‘I saw a group of Werelords building an empire. You, the Stags and that loathsome Vega; how was I to know the threat from Bast was real?’
‘We served the Wolf, Henrik; Drew was the only surviving son of Wergar and we were duty-bound to protect him. He was the rightful king.’
‘You speak in the past tense, Bergan. Are we assuming this boy, true son of the Wolf or not, is dead?’
‘We don’t know, Your Grace,’ said Hector, causing all heads to turn. The Boarlord cleared his throat, coughing into his gloved left hand. Bergan noticed for the first time that there was a hole in the dark leather. Hector must have picked up a wound in the melee with the Skirmishers. ‘Lord Drew went missing when Cape Gala was seized by the Catlords, his whereabouts are unknown. Many fear our friend is dead.’
Bergan looked at the young baron from Redmire. He’d come some way from the shy, nervous child who had been the lackey of that monster, Vankaskan. The Wererat had set the youth on a terrible path, one from which, thankfully, Hector had managed to free himself. The dark magistry that had threatened to consume him had been staved off, and now the Boarlord had managed to repair his damaged reputation and prove himself to Bergan with his brave and bold actions. It was good to have him back.
‘You’re Huth’s son,’ said Henrik, looking him up and down. ‘Hector, isn’t it?’
Hector bowed. ‘Indeed, Your Grace. I’m at your service.’
‘Your father was a good and kind man,’ said Henrik. ‘You’re a magister, I hear? A fine one at that, so they say.’
‘I am, though I’m still learning.’
‘You should speak with my sister, Lady Greta,’ said Henrik, glancing over his shoulder towards a tall, white-haired woman who stood at the rear of the chamber. The officers moved round her, allowing her to step forward. She carried in her hands a white metal gauntlet, fashioned in the style of a bear’s paw. Her hand traced a line over the runes that covered its surface, strange symbols that hinted at magicks. Bergan recognized the gauntlet instantly: the White Fist of Icegarden, the enchanted weapon Ragnor, Henrik’s father, used to wear into battle.
Hector bowed once again. ‘You are a magister also, my lady?’
‘Indeed,’ she replied, smiling warmly. She handed the gauntlet to her brother. ‘Alchemy’s my discipline. The Daughters of Icegarden have always been married to the mountain, wedded to the steel which serves our people so well. We should speak, Baron Hector, once you’ve rested.’
‘She could teach you a thing or two, I dare say,’ added Henrik. He was silent for the briefest moment. ‘I never exchanged a cross word with the old baron, Hector. I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘It was the Lionguard’s swords that took Huth from us,’ said Bergan, hoping that mention of the Catlords’ vile actions might further strengthen their accord.
Henrik grunted, shaking his head. He put his left hand inside the White Fist, his fingers finding their way to the ends of the metal glove.
‘Seems this young Lion’s reach is long, and he now has the added muscle of the Werepanther.’
After their rescue by the White Bear and his cavalry, Bergan’s small troop had been escorted beyond the barricades, disappearing into the heart of Duke Henrik’s war camp. While the White Bear had been silent as they’d trudged through the snow to the Shepherd’s Hall, his officers had been happy to inform Bergan of their situation. The full might of the Sturmish army had assembled on the slopes. A skeleton crew remained in Icegarden itself, enough to man the walls and gates, but all eyes were on the mighty force that had gathered in the southern foothills. Onyx’s army was a threat to Sturmland, and they were to meet them head-on. If the Beast of Bast wanted to take the Whitepeaks, he’d sorely underestimated Sturmish resolve. One cavalry officer had told Bergan that the mountains would be the undoing of the Bastians. The Bearlord prayed he was right.
‘When did Onyx arrive in your foothills?’ asked Bergan, keen to hear what had happened.
‘They’ve worked their way up gradually. First the Dalelands, I’m afraid,’ he said, glancing at Hector. ‘Once Onyx had seized the Great West Road he was free to move through the Badlands. Muller’s rabble welcomed him and quickly fell in line. A considerable part of his army headed east, according to our scouts, with the Stags of the Barebones their likely target. I can’t imagine Manfred’s folk were able to put up much of a fight. More still joined the Doglords as they returned to Omir, to help take Azra from King Faisal. The Rats, Crows and Skirmishers have bolstered Onyx’s ranks enormously. So it looks grim all round for the Seven Realms.’
‘Your news leaves a bad taste,’ muttered Bergan, dismayed at the ill tidings.
‘There is some good. Word has reached us that the Catlords’ navy is in disarray. Piracy is afoot in the White Sea, and many Bastian ships have already been scuttled. Rumour has it that Baron Bosa, of all the salty old souls, is behind the attacks.’
‘Bosa?’ exclaimed Hector, his voice cracking with surprise.
‘Indeed,’ replied Henrik. ‘Much as I’d hoped my people might avoid the wrath of the Catlords, it seems the Werewhale of Moga had hoped for the same. Wishful thinking, eh? Still, it’s good the old pirate has got off his fat behind and found his way back into the ocean. Brenn knows what stirred him into life, whether it was the Bastians landing on his doorstep or some other foul deed, but it’s grand to know there’s someone else on our side.’
‘You were there yourself, weren’t you, Hector?’ said Bergan. ‘Marooned up there by Vega. The Sharklord has Manfred and Queen Amelie aboard the Maelstrom, so our young friend informs me. I know you were never fond of Vega, Henrik, but try to put your concerns to the back of your mind. He’s come good in the end, as have many of us,’ he added.
Henrik arched an eyebrow.
‘I’ll never trust a Sharklord, less still one who proved to be such a turncoat. Vega will get what’s coming to him one day, mark my word, cousin.’
‘As I said, he’s changed. I can’t say what the cause was: perhaps Drew.’
‘This Drew seems to have had a profound effect on all who’ve met him. I haven’t found anyone who is indifferent to mention of his name. It seems the Bastians have an aversion to the young Wolf that borders on the psychotic, while you speak of him like a messiah.’
‘He’s a rare breed, Henrik,’ said Bergan, his earnest voice rich with passion. ‘The Wolf is a noble beast, one of the first of Brenn’s children; Drew’s soul is as rich and pure as that of any of the Werelords who dined at the first Great Feast. Wergar’s blood courses through his veins. Yet it is tempered. He was raised by humans, oblivious to his parentage. His understanding of the world is … different from our own. Wergar was stubborn, his world a tapestry of black and white, friends and enemies. This boy wants justice for all, equality between human and therian.’ Bergan smiled, thinking back fondly to the discussions he and Drew had often enjoyed, sometimes endured. ‘He sees all the shades of grey.’
‘A freethinker? Dangerous thing for a king to be,’ laughed Henrik. ‘Well, let’s pray to Brenn the boy turns up, and isn’t lost to us.’ He raised the White Fist of Icegarden and clenched it, the shining steel claws disappearing into the paw’s palm. ‘I’d like to shake that Wolf’s paw!’
Henrik rose, as one of his men secured a long white cloak to the shoulders of his breastplate.
‘I must take my leave, my lords. I need to inspect the lines before nightfall and hear the scouts’ reports. You’re most welcome to journey on to Icegarden: I can send a handful of outriders with you. You’ll find little there: the old city’s a bit of a ghost town at present. It’s down here where all the fighting will happen.’
‘If you don’t mind, cousin, we’ll remain here with you,’ said Bergan. ‘This is our fight as well.’
‘You don’t look fit to stand, let alone do battle, old Bear,’ said Henrik, grinning at last. It had been twenty years since the Lord of Icegarden had graced Bergan with his rare smile.
‘You’ve food here?�
� said Bergan. ‘Feed me and let me sleep. I’ll be fit to face anything those foul felinthropes dare throw our way. Besides, you look a bit low on numbers,’ he joked. ‘I reckon you could do with our help.’
‘Very well: stay on the front line and turn down my offer of a warm bath. I’ll have my men find tents for you and yours. I couldn’t help but notice,’ said Henrik, lowering his voice as he stepped closer to Bergan, ‘that you have Ugri warriors among your number. You do realize they have an unfortunate history with my people? Slotha and I have never seen eye to eye.’
‘Slotha’s dead,’ said Hector, cutting into the conversation. ‘The Lion saw to that. Her people are being hunted by Lucas’s forces as we speak. The men you saw outside have sought my stewardship, Your Grace; they’re members of my Boarguard. They can be trusted.’
‘I hope you don’t come to regret your choice of guard then, Baron Hector,’ said Henrik, his brow knotted with concern. ‘They’re brutal, the Ugri. The only language they understand is that of violence.’
Hector smiled. ‘Then I’ll endeavour to educate them, Your Grace.’
Bergan stepped towards the Boarlord, taking his left wrist in his hand. ‘I see you picked up a war wound, my boy. You get that scratch in the fight back there?’ he asked, nodding at the torn leather of his glove. Hector tugged his hand free, placing his right palm over it.
‘Indeed,’ he replied, his voice strained. ‘If it’s all the same with you, my lords, could I move straight on to Icegarden? I’m not sure there’s a great deal I can add to the cause here. After all, I’m a mere magister.’
‘There’s nothing trifling about a magister,’ said Lady Greta. ‘Your healing hands could do some good here.’
‘Then if I may, let me visit your wonderful city briefly, treat my injuries, then return.’
Henrik and Bergan looked at one another, seeing no problem with Hector’s suggestion.
‘Very well,’ said the White Bear. ‘The outriders shall escort you. Return to us when you’re recovered. There’ll be little to entertain you in Icegarden.’
Hector bowed to the three therians in turn, before embracing Bergan.
‘Take care, Hector,’ whispered Bergan. ‘A friend such as you is precious. I want to keep you close. Keep you safe.’
Bergan kissed his cheek. Hector seemed taken aback.
‘Yes … yes, Your Grace. I’ll be careful.’ The young magister pulled away from Bergan and managed a smile, before turning and walking out of the Shepherd’s Hall, returning to the remainder of his Boarguard.
Henrik and Greta stepped away from Bergan and his companions, keen to speak with their officers regarding the day’s business. Bergan spied a platter of cooked meats that had been prepared and brought through by a servant. The Bearlord took the metal tray from the surprised man, smiling as he stole it.
‘I think we can take care of things from here,’ said Bergan, snatching up a charcoaled drumstick and tearing into it with his teeth. Captain Fry joined him, whipping a piece from the platter and setting to work as the two of them sat down once more. Only Carver didn’t join them, instead staring at the door after Hector.
‘You’re not hungry, Carver?’ said Bergan through a mouthful of chicken.
‘I’ve an appetite, all right,’ replied the tattooed rogue. ‘But something irks me.’
‘Speak your mind.’
‘I don’t trust your Boarlord.’
‘What’s not to trust?’ asked Bergan, wiping the juices from his beard with the back of his hand.
‘This Boarguard he keeps. I know two of them from back in Highcliff: Ringlin and Ibal. Cut-throats, the pair of them. And as for the Ugri he travels with … Fry, you said yourself they can’t be trusted.’
The Sturmlander cleared his throat.
‘Not in my eyes, no, but I wouldn’t presume to know better than Baron Hector. They fought alongside us, remember? They’ve put Skirmishers in the ground on a few occasions now, first in the ravine and then on the slopes. The baron’s proved himself to us. Perhaps you could show a little more faith in him?’
Carver shook his head slowly.
‘No. I don’t like it. It was all rather convenient, him stumbling across us in that gulch as he did.’
‘You’re a distrustful curmudgeon,’ grunted Bergan, biting into his fourth drumstick. ‘What would you have us do?’
‘Let me head to the city. Keep an eye on him.’
‘You really feel this strongly about Hector?’
‘Let’s just say I’m a good judge of character. I’ve met enough rogues and seen enough treachery in my time. I’ve been responsible for a fair share too, I might add.’
‘Treachery’s a strong word,’ said Bergan, waving a fifth drumstick at the Thief-lord.
Carver snatched it from his fingertips. ‘Then let’s hope I’m wrong, eh?’
He walked to the door, pausing to add: ‘There’s a first time for everything.’
With that, he departed, the snow swirling over the threshold before the door slammed shut at his back.
9
The Serpent Revealed
While the surviving members of Brackenholme court slept huddled around the Bearlord’s throne, a solitary figure sat before them on the steps, keeping a lonely vigil. Three nights previously the Wereserpent had come for one of their number, dragging the screaming boy away into the darkness. The group had fought back, trying to wrestle their companion free from the monster, but to no avail. The Wyldermen had closed ranks, striking the prisoners with spears and axes, forcing them back as their dark mistress disappeared with her meal. From that moment on the survivors had agreed to keep watch: they wouldn’t let Vala take one of them again so easily.
Whitley squinted, peering through the gloom that smothered the giant chamber. The fire-pit in front of her father’s dais had burned low, the wild men having allowed their prisoners the small luxury of a fragile flame. She could hear the Wyldermen moving and muttering beyond the giant pile of broken furniture, which was heaped in the centre of the room; chairs, heirlooms, curtains, paintings, beams and floorboards. Initially the young Werelady had assumed they were building some kind of bonfire, that the wild men intended to burn Brackenholme’s residents within their most revered hall. How wrong she had been. The Wyldermen now kept their distance from the ramshackle structure; only one of them was allowed anywhere near the pile, and Whitley recognized him well enough. He sat on top of the heap, faintly visible. As the Bearlady watched the room, so the wild man watched her.
A noise came from within the heart of the debris, causing Whitley’s eyes to fix upon it. She rose to her feet, poised and prepared to call for her companions, and alert them to forthcoming danger. The last thing she wanted to do was disturb her mother and the others: sleep had been difficult enough to come by, and any stolen moments of rest were precious. Up above, the Wylderman stood as the shadows parted below. Splintered planks groaned as something emerged from the twisted mass, torn drapes pushed to one side as the occupant of the mountain of detritus appeared. The monster had slithered out of the heap frequently since making the hall its home, each time sending a wave of terror over the captive folk of Brackenholme, yet now it chose to leave its beast form behind. It was an old woman who clambered slowly out of the Wereserpent’s nest.
‘Gracious, my dear,’ said Vala. ‘Have they got you keeping watch again? Shouldn’t it be someone else’s turn? You must be exhausted!’
Whitley watched as the bent old woman came closer, stepping slowly through the darkness. The fire-pit’s glowing coals dimly illuminated her as she approached, a long tattered shawl blanketing her, cowled about her face. This was the first occasion since they’d arrived in the woodland city that Vala had appeared as a human. The Serpent had cast aside her disguise of a Romari Baba to revert to her favoured form, revelling in the horror the sight of the Wyrm caused among her captives. For her to appear again as Korga no doubt meant more trickery, Whitley reasoned.
‘You come to taunt me, Vala?
’ asked Whitley warily. ‘Tired so soon of slithering around on your belly?’
The twin sensations of fear and anger gripped her, the hairs on her arms tingling. She searched for the Bear in her heart, hoping the beast might come to her aid should she need it. She still lacked the control that the male therianthropes had mastered, that even Gretchen had some understanding of. She faced the monster alone.
‘Oh, this?’ the old woman cackled, passing a withered hand across her covered face in the gloom. ‘You were quite fond of dear old Korga, weren’t you? I thought her reappearance would spark a warm glow in you, rekindling the fondness that we once held for one another.’
Whitley managed a nervous laugh.
‘Did the Baba ever even exist?’
‘Oh, she lived well enough. At least until Darkheart and I encountered her caravan on the edge of the Wyrmwood.’ She looked up briefly towards the Wylderman who stood on top of her nest, waving with a scrawny hand. ‘Your friends have a lot to answer for; his father was the shaman your Wolf killed, whose spirit your Piglord tortured. I’d ask him to join us, be Rolff for you again, for old times’ sake, but he’d sooner sever his own throat with a blunt flint than play the filthy Romari again.’
Whitley glowered at the wild man’s silhouette, a statue in the dark. I trusted them so much. This is all my fault. I brought them here.
‘You still blame yourself, don’t you?’ said Vala, as if reading the young Werelady’s thoughts. ‘For my being here?’
The old woman settled on the floor on the other side of the fire-pit, her movements awkward and ungainly. Whitley watched her, noticing that there was something different about Vala’s body shape, even in the Baba’s guise.
‘You shouldn’t,’ the crone went on. ‘This would all have come to pass anyway. It is not just your misfortune that has brought me into the heart of your father’s city, Bearchild. It’s the misfortune of every Werelord who has made an enemy of me down the years. Now they fight and bicker with one another, providing me with the opportunity to strike at their homelands. And they shall all suffer in time, as my people grow in strength and number, as they rally to my call from across the Dyrewood and beyond. Your lords of Westland, the Woodland Realm, the Dalelands and further afield: all are guilty of antagonizing the Wyldermen over my long lifetime.’
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 25
