Drew led the way, Milo close behind, with Red Rufus bringing up the rear. They walked in single file, heads down but alert. They had already passed one group of wild men, their markings singling them out as a different clan from the ones who had hunted Stirga, blue woad circles painted over their torsos. No word had passed between them, nods sufficing as one tribe passed another. It was a blessing that the Wyldermen came from all over the Dyrewood, each with a variant of Wyld speech, none identical. While Drew and Red Rufus were almost naked, Milo wore two of the filthy animal-skin cloaks they’d pulled from the corpses, concealing his breastplate beneath. Along with the fallen Romari’s lute, the rest of their equipment had been left with the horses, hidden off the Dyre Road a good distance away. The only item Drew had brought was Moonbrand, but the sword’s handle and scabbard were swaddled in rags across his back.
He looked back at his companions, each caked in the foul dark clay that they’d scraped off the slain Wyldermen, their hair braided with the bright red feathers they’d scavenged. Their bare feet trudged through the churned-up snow, each painful step taking them deeper into the enemy camp. Light snow swirled around them, almost invisible through the mist, tiny white crystals that alighted on their mud-encrusted bodies. They were an odd-looking trio of wild men for sure, but Drew prayed that their ruse would get them through the Dyre Gate. If not, their rescue attempt would be over before it had begun. The whites of his friends’ eyes glinted from their dark masks, and their attention was focused on him. They looked to him for direction, for decisions. Even Red Rufus had come round to the notion that the young Wolf was a capable leader, if a little young. The respect of the Hawklord had been hard-earned. Drew checked himself, his pink flesh obscured by the muddy paint. The stakes couldn’t be higher, the trio risking everything with their plan. Please, Brenn; let this work.
The Dyre Gate materialized out of the mist ahead, its doors still hanging broken just as Stirga had described. Torches burned atop the towers on either side, the vague shapes of Wyldermen shifting behind the stake ramparts. A crowd of them had set up their camp within the heart of the battered gate, their makeshift settlement spilling across the Dyre Road between the towers. As they approached, the smell of cooking meat greeted them, the crackling glow of a bonfire spluttering behind the city walls. The smell was vaguely familiar, reminding Drew of hog roast. He swallowed back the bile, common sense battling with the hunger that gnawed in his belly. The Wolflord knew full well that the wild men’s favoured food walked on two legs, not four.
Drew glanced at his companions again. Milo’s eyes were wide and white, the boy struggling to fight back the growing anxiety as it clawed its way up from the pit of his belly. Behind him, Red Rufus was showing no hint of the fear Drew felt, whether or not he shared it. His head may have been bowed but his eyes were alert as they stepped over the city’s threshold. His hand reached out, bony knuckles clenching briefly over Milo’s shoulder in a reassuring squeeze of comfort. Drew gulped hard, his throat dry. Stay calm, Milo, or you’ll be the death of us all.
Three Wyldermen emerged through the smoky mist, each carrying axes, blocking their path. Drew’s stomach rolled: his overwhelming desire was to either run or fight. Neither would help them reach Whitley. He had to get past the guards and into the city. One of them muttered a harsh noise followed by a brief wave. A greeting? Drew did his best to mimic the wild man’s utterance, raising his hand with the same gesticulation. The Wylderman nodded, stepping to one side, allowing the four to pass.
Drew stepped between them, the filthy snow stabbing at the soles of his feet and making him long for the comfort of sturdy boots. They were back with Bravado, folded inside his cloak, hidden away with the rest of his clothes. He kept his gaze on the gate guards, sneering and lifting his jaw in a show of confidence. He knew enough about the Wyldermen to understand that their lives revolved around posturing and confrontation. If they saw anything in his behaviour that didn’t match the demeanour of a Wylderman, the game would be up. Two of the wild men turned away, while the one who spoke kept his eyes on Drew. A look passed between them: two warriors showing respect. Drew was grateful the man kept his eyes on him and not the others – of all of them he was the one who best passed for a wild man with his dark hair, tanned skin, and athletic body. The others sloped by, masked in mud and scabby animal skins, avoiding the lead Wylderman’s challenging glare. Finally, the man turned, following his companions as they sloped back towards the ruined gatehouse.
‘Good thing you speak their language,’ whispered Milo as they left the Wyldermen behind.
‘Good thing I can mimic animal sounds,’ said Drew. ‘How far to the Great Oak?’
‘I thought you’d been here before?’
Drew sucked his teeth, trying to stop them from chattering. ‘On that occasion I was a guest in the cells of the Garrison Tree. No, I don’t know the place, but I know the people well enough. Good men and women.’
They marched on, deeper into Brackenholme’s heart. Further campfires shone dimly, dotting the land that surrounded the Great Trees and the city proper. Abandoned, blackened homesteads appeared through the smog, the fate of their occupants too grim to imagine. No sooner had the burned structures appeared than they vanished once more, like spectres in the mist.
‘Where are all the civilians?’ said Milo.
Drew looked back as Red Rufus walked alongside the young Staglord. The Hawklord’s eyebrows were arched over his crooked nose.
‘I’m praying they’ve been spared,’ replied Drew, not wishing to elaborate and alarm the boy further. Clearly Milo was unaware of the Wylderman diet.
‘Dear Brenn,’ said Red Rufus, his head craning up, the words attracting the attention of his two companions as the smoke began to thin. ‘The Great Trees.’
The Hawk had visited the city once many years ago, but what greeted him on this occasion bore little resemblance to those distant memories. They came to a halt, Drew’s legs threatening to fail him as he saw the devastation unleashed upon Brackenholme. Five enormous trunks rose from the ground, giant pillars that disappeared into the heavens. The silhouettes of smoking buildings huddled around their feet. High above, the boughs of one of the Great Trees were alight, the flames licking across its branches unchecked, roaring as they devoured it, the sound like that of an enraged beast. The nearest tree was instantly recognizable as the Great Oak, and the largest collection of campfires spluttered around its base.
‘That’s where Stirga said Lady Whitley was last seen,’ said Red Rufus, gesturing with a nod. ‘She was in the throne room when Vala and her people attacked.’
Drew smacked his lips, his eyes still staring at the burning tree. He lowered his gaze to the Dyre Road. Screams intermittently pierced the shouts and laughter of the thousands of tribesmen who had taken Brackenholme for their own. Drew and his friends were deep within enemy territory, a handful of termites in a red ant nest, and somewhere within the Great Oak was the Red Queen, Vala.
‘Don’t mean to push you, lad,’ said Red Rufus, ‘but what’s the plan exactly? We can’t stand around ’ere gawping; that’s one way to attract these devils’ attention. We need to move. We need to act.’
Drew’s knees felt weak, exhaustion and expectation suddenly catching up with him. He’d brought Red Rufus with him first from Windfell, then from Stormdale, and the old bird had stuck with him through thick and thin. They’d fought along the way, but the Hawklord now looked to him for orders, trusted his life to the young Wolf. Drew cast his eyes over Milo, the boy staring back with the same expression as Red Rufus. Drew balled his fist, trying to will his body into action. He checked himself, staring at the healed stump of his left arm, painfully aware there was only one hand left to clench. Piece by piece, this world is killing me. The Hawklord put a hand on Drew’s shoulder, his voice unusually gentle as he pulled the youth’s gaze back to his own.
‘Drew,’ he whispered. ‘Every journey starts with a small step, every wave a ripple.’
‘I’m
just one man.’
‘What you do now, today, affects every soul in Lyssia; don’t underestimate the impact of your actions. Trust yourself, Drew. Take that step, let momentum do the rest. You are a great warrior, a leader of man and therian alike. There may be only two of us ’ere, an old fool and a boy, but you’re not alone. The Wolf has friends and allies throughout the Seven Realms and beyond, and they will rally to your call. Stay true to your heart, ride this storm, face whatever these villains throw at you; we’ll be there by your side. You’re the son of Wergar, last of the Grey Wolves of Westland. You’re our king.’
Red Rufus gripped Drew’s shoulders in each hand, squeezing hard and coaxing life into the youth’s aching limbs, his words making the Wolflord’s whole being course with a furious fire. Drew’s grey eyes sparked with a new-found will. He gritted his teeth and nodded.
‘Now,’ added Red Rufus. ‘What are we to do?’
‘We need to get closer,’ said Drew, pointing at the Great Oak. ‘How does one get up into the tree, Red Rufus?’
‘They have lifts that run on winches, counterbalanced against one another.’
‘Counterbalanced?’
‘Two big wicker lifts are connected via a giant length of rope, running through a mechanism. The pulley’s operated by a team of men. While one lift rises, the other drops, distributing the weight evenly and preventing undue strain on the winch.’
‘You’re an observant old bird,’ said Drew.
‘It pays to pay attention,’ smiled Red Rufus, his grin making the mud on his face crack.
‘So,’ said Drew, ‘if the lifts are only operated from above, how do we get them moving?’
‘I seem to remember they use a horn to signal,’ said the Hawklord. ‘But I wouldn’t hold out much hope for that with these wild men. They no doubt have their own way of getting messages to one another.’
‘I think we can rule out a climb,’ sighed Drew, waving his stump and glowering at their predicament.
‘And my wing remains sprained, so you can forget about flight,’ said Red Rufus.
Drew suddenly noticed that while the two of them had been talking, the boy had disappeared. ‘Where’s Milo?’ he said, his head spinning as he looked around. Red Rufus joined him, equally alarmed at the situation.
‘He was here a moment ago,’ said the Hawk, pounding a fist into his gnarly palm.
‘He’s there!’ said Drew, pointing through the gloom as the boy ran to them.
‘Fool, boy!’ snarled Red Rufus. ‘What were you doing? You stay with us, remember? You’ll get yourself – and us – killed!’
Milo stared at Drew, panting hard, his voice trembling with adrenaline.
‘You said we needed a closer look,’ he gasped. ‘Well, I got one.’
Drew placed his hand on Milo’s back as the boy regained his breath.
‘There’s a corral,’ the Staglord wheezed, his speech clipped. ‘Close to the tree. Perhaps they kept horses. Don’t know. But there are men.’
‘Men?’ asked Drew.
‘Townsfolk. Greencloaks. They’ve corralled them. Prisoners.’
‘Cattle,’ growled Red Rufus. Milo glanced at him, his panting ceasing instantly.
‘If I head for the lift,’ said Drew, ‘I might be able to draw the wild men’s attention my way, away from the prisoners. Provide the distraction that allows the Greencloaks to be freed. Increasing our numbers can only help our cause.’
‘Drawing a bunch of these monsters out into a fight? Sounds like a two-man job to me, Wolflord,’ grumbled Red Rufus.
Drew nodded, considering his next words carefully. ‘Milo, can you get back to the corral without being noticed by the Wyldermen?’
The boy’s eyes lit up. ‘Of course.’
Drew grabbed Milo’s chin and lifted the boy’s jaw until they faced one another. ‘You did good work back there, but there’s more to do. Do you think you can help our captive friends? You’ll need to be careful; this is no game. Your father’s been good to me. I wouldn’t want your death to spell the end of our friendship. If anything goes awry, you run, understand? You run and you don’t stop!’
The boy nodded as Red Rufus glowered.
‘Come on,’ said Drew, turning to the Hawklord. ‘We need to get moving, my feathered friend. There’s a –’
His words were cut short by the appearance of a troop of Wyldermen, approaching through the falling snow from the Great Oak. Their discussions hadn’t gone unnoticed, Drew realized to his horror, the conversation having raised suspicion among the more observant wild men. A stocky warrior led the ten tribesmen, a red deerskin draped across his torso, the animal’s head still attached and lolling from his shoulder. His face bore a mask of white paint in the fashion of a skull, and his brothers shared similar ghoulish markings.
Drew spied Red Rufus’s hand slipping to the knife on his belt. If we fight now, we’ll never reach the Great Oak! He glanced beyond the Hawklord, seeing that Milo had again vanished. Where’s he gone now? Drew prayed that the boy was already heading for the corral. His more pressing concern was Red Rufus. Stepping in front of the Hawklord, Drew hoped beyond reason that he might be able to prevent an altercation. The White Skulls fanned out around them, each of them snarling, their leader coming toe to toe with Drew.
Remembering what had worked previously, Drew stared the man down, raising his jaw until they were inches apart. The chieftain looked over his shoulder, inspecting the other scrawny Wylderman who acted so oddly. If he looks hard enough, he’ll see something’s amiss, thought Drew, butterflies scrabbling against his stomach wall. Wasting no time, Drew gave the chief a shove with his shoulder, snarling as the White Skull staggered back a step. The leader took offence, just as Drew had expected, immediately hunkering into an attack position and lifting his axe.
The Wolflord didn’t panic, instead standing firm, glaring back. The chieftain stepped closer, peeling back his lips to reveal his rows of wicked, filed teeth. He gnashed them, teeth striking one another like flint against stone. His tongue trailed from between them, the warrior letting the tip trace along the tiny, white blades, a ribbon of blood appearing across the purple flesh. His men whooped, clattering weapons at their chieftain’s show of strength.
Drew let the Wolf in, just enough for his purpose. He felt his gums tear, his human teeth shifting, sharpening; reforming into deadly lycanthropic fangs. By the time he bared them at the chieftain, his mouth was slick with blood, dribbling from his lips and down his throat, revealing a set of razor teeth more impressive than any Wylderman had ever laid eyes on. He growled and stepped forward, snapping at the air.
The chieftain was beaten; Drew’s show was clearly enough not only to make him doubt his chances in a fight but also dismiss any fears that he was an enemy. The White Skulls opened up, forming a guard of honour for Drew and his companion. The chieftain grinned, gesturing towards the Great Oak, apparently escorting the newcomers towards the main camp. Drew grinned back, hiding the fact that his innards were rolling against one another like a mass of snakes. He walked alongside the White Skull leader, both pleased by his performance and terrified by their predicament. He chanced a look at Red Rufus, and the old warrior drilled his eyes into him. Please, Brenn; let Milo succeed! There was no going back now.
Drew looked up as the trio and their honour guard approached the Great Oak, its outline shifting in and out of focus through the snowfall and smoke. He blinked, catching something in his eye. It wasn’t a snowflake, the impact was different, yet still wet. Drops falling on the quagmire of mud, slush and snow began to hammer, gently at first, the noise gradually rising in volume.
The snow had stopped. The rain had come.
2
In the Shadow of the Strakenberg
The brown cloaks of the Boarguard whipped in the wind, snapping at the air as the gusts threatened to tear them from their shoulders. They walked two abreast, four at the front, four at the rear, with the Baron of Redmire in their middle. Three Sturmish outriders rode at
the head of the procession, resplendent in steel armour, their horses stepping along the icy road with ease. At the rear of the group, Bo Carver trudged along with Pick walking in silence beside him, the girl sticking close to the serpent-tattooed rogue. Carver felt very much like an outsider, and not for the first time. He’d spent a lifetime as a man people wouldn’t dare to be seen associating with. But the Thief-lord had always proved a useful man to call upon, whether by prince or pauper. His cold eyes were fixed on Baron Hector, deep within his Boarguard. The magister’s head was bowed as the company walked from the light into the darkness, the enormous shadows of Icegarden’s white walls blotting the sun from the sky.
The walls were formed from giant blocks of ice, pieced together in a complex fashion. Each block was perhaps as tall as a man and twice as long, Brenn knew how deep. How the slabs had been hewn from the icy sides of the mountain, let alone transported into place, Carver could only imagine. They were fifty feet high, and there were no turrets along the ramparts; the occasional guard walked along its edge, precariously close to the sheer drop. The imposing metal gates that marked the entrance into the city silently opened, proving that the smiths of Icegarden were masters of mechanics as well as steelwork.
Carver looked up, a movement on the frozen slopes catching his eye. It was distant, up to the west of the city, but something caught the fading sunlight. He stopped in his tracks.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pick, clasping her shivering hand in his grasp.
‘Might be nothing,’ Carver lied, trying not to alarm the girl. He kept his gaze fixed on the bright white vista, searching for another telltale movement. Who’s up there?
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 27
