Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Are you coming, my lord-thief?’

  It was Hector’s voice, the young Boarlord having paused at the gates. His Boarguard were gathered, the outriders awaiting them within the walls, handing their horses over to the stablemen. Each of the Ugri stared at Carver impassively, showing no emotion. Ringlin was smiling, while the fat idiot Ibal giggled at his side. Hector gestured beyond the gate.

  ‘Icegarden awaits.’

  Hector stared at the palm of his left hand. The hole left by the crossbow bolt was perfectly round; the missile had sailed through the dead flesh like a hot knife through butter. He dipped the forefinger of his right hand into the hole, forcing it through until it poked out the other side. He felt no sensation, no discomfort; nothing.

  ‘Fascinating,’ he said, as much to himself as his companions.

  Duke Henrik hadn’t lied when he’d said that only a skeleton force remained within Icegarden. Once they were through the gates, it was clear that the city was mostly devoid of soldiers, bar those who manned the walls. Stone houses leaned against one another, reminding Hector of a herd of grey cattle huddling together against the elements. Townsfolk had looked out from their windows as they passed by, some showing alarm at the arrival of Ugri in their city. The White Bear’s chamberlain had met them at the duke’s palace, an ancient fellow named Janek whose spry step belied his advanced years. The palace dwarfed the city, a cathedral of white stone that flanked the Strakenberg. One dizzying tower reached to the heavens, its turret lost in the clouds – the Bone Tower, so called because it looked like an erect, skeletal finger, its summit promising a view across the Whitepeaks like no other.

  The old chamberlain had led them through Henrik’s palace, whose interior was resplendent with symbols of the wealth Henrik had collected over the years. The walls glittered with gems and jewels of all shapes and sizes, embedded into the palace walls in intricate designs, reminding Hector of the runic devices he’d seen on the fabled gauntlet, the White Fist. The rumours were true: Henrik was a hoarder, a therian proud of the wealth that lay buried within the mines of the Strakenberg, and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

  The quarters Hector had been given were sumptuous, as befitted a visiting Werelord. Velvet drapes hung from the granite walls, tied back around tall arched windows that overlooked the city. The Ugri leader, Two Axes, stood by the curtains, leaning against the grey stone, watching the setting sun. The enormous four-poster bed was decked out in a mass of quilts, the fire beside it roaring hungrily in its hearth. Ringlin and Ibal lay on the bed, their sodden boots staining the covers while they stared up at the handsomely carved ceiling. A porcelain washstand stood on the other side of the bed, beside a dressing table and mirror that would please the vainest princess. Hector stood in front of the mirror, turning his hand, staring at his reflection as it gazed solemnly back.

  Just imagine, brother, hissed the Vincent-vile, if your entire body was devoured by the black mark! You’d be impervious to harm: you’d be immortal!

  The notion had crossed Hector’s mind, and he wasn’t keen. The darkness had crept up his forearm, where its progress had halted. If his research into dark magistry continued, who knew where the discoloration might stop? His torso? His face? He looked into the mirror, turning his head this way and that. His pale flesh shone in the firelight, hollow cheekbones giving his face an almost skeletal appearance, as if the skin was stretched thin against his skull. His tousled brown hair hung slick against his forehead, and his face was stricken with the appearance of perpetual illness. He bore little resemblance to the chubby young Boar who had once served Vankaskan.

  You’re looking more like a Rat each day, Hector!

  ‘Don’t like what you see, my lord?’ said Ringlin, catching the Boarlord inspecting himself in the mirror.

  ‘I don’t recognize myself, Ringlin. What happened to the Hector you first met, the boy you thought you could intimidate?’

  The thief sat upright, swinging his legs off the bed. His wet boots hit the floorboards with a slap.

  ‘That boy’s dead. I see a man before me now, and a powerful one at that.’

  Hector stared at the gaunt face in the polished glass. How did he get here? Did everything stem from that dead shaman in the Wylderman village so long ago? In a misplaced step, the brimstone had been disturbed and the darkness had got into him. What might have happened if he’d carried out the communing ceremony successfully? The risen corpse would never have grappled with him. Perhaps he could have gone on his way, a happy soul with only a fleeting interest in necromancy. How different might his life have been if he’d never carried out that first incantation?

  Don’t doubt yourself now, brother, whispered Vincent in his ear, the vile all too aware of Hector’s thoughts. Clumsy you may have been, but look at the world that blessed mishap has opened up to you! You’re on the verge of greatness, Hector; you could be the most powerful magister Lyssia’s ever seen!

  Hector raised his hand again, clenching the gnarled black fingers into a fist. The skin creaked like old dry leather. He could command the limb to move, was in complete control of it, but felt nothing. Despite his brother’s words, he was still wracked by doubt.

  ‘Is this what my future holds? Bit by bit, eaten away by the darkness?’

  Ringlin rose from the bed and joined him by the mirror.

  ‘May I speak openly, my lord?’

  Hector looked at the man for a moment, a man he’d once feared might kill him in the blink of an eye. He was now a man Hector could depend on. There was little he couldn’t trust Ringlin with.

  ‘Speak freely.’

  ‘Hector’s dead, Blackhand.’ Ringlin whipped the words out, matter-of-fact, highlighting just how much Hector’s world had turned upon its head. There was a light in the rogue’s eyes that the magister had never seen before, the tall thin soldier speaking earnestly and from the heart. Does he truly believe in me?

  ‘Sure, you have to keep the pretence up for the Bearlord and others,’ Ringlin went on, ‘play the part as long as you must, but that existence is over now. What life did you truly have before? I remember the snivelling scared child back in Bevan’s Tower, filling his britches at the sight of his own shadow. Your talent has taken you in a new direction. You’re losing nothing and gaining everything.’

  ‘How can you say I’m losing nothing?’ snapped Hector, waving his blackened limb. ‘Have you not seen my hand?’

  ‘I know little about necromancy, Blackhand. But I recognize power. You’ve a gift, and I don’t doubt you can master whatever ailment corrupts your flesh.’ He grabbed Hector’s withered arm. ‘This hand is a badge of honour. It’ll strike fear into your enemies’ hearts. All shall know your name and fear it, even your allies!’

  ‘And what of those I once loved? What of Duke Bergan? He’s not the same as Vega or Manfred. He still cares for me.’

  ‘The old Bear will tell you what he thinks you need to hear. He sees you’re changed. He’s never trusted you since you betrayed the Wolf’s Council. You can’t think he has a place in your life now, surely?’

  ‘But I’ve known him since I was a child. He was my father’s best friend, an uncle to me. He’s always looked out for me. Did you not see the emotion he showed when we saved him from the Skirmishers in that canyon?’

  ‘Skirmishers you sent there: a ruse, a ploy to win him over and regain his trust. How do you think he’ll react when he discovers your duplicity, the game you’ve played? Do you honestly think you’ll have a place in his heart when he finds out? Because he will, Blackhand, soon enough.’

  ‘Soon enough,’ echoed Two Axes from the window. The giant Ugri didn’t turn to them, his eyes still fixed on the white world beyond and the setting sun in the west.

  Hector shook his head. Now, so close to his greatest triumph, he was faltering.

  Listen to the man, brother. He speaks sense.

  ‘Your old life’s dead, Blackhand. Your old friends are dead to you. Show that single-mindedness that won Ibal and me over
and your Ugri friend over there. Stay true to your path!’

  One name returned to Hector’s mind, again and again, fighting to the surface each time he buried his feelings for those he’d once loved. Vega and Manfred were gone to him, as was the girl Bethwyn who had played her part in betraying him. Queen Amelie, too, was blinded by the Wolf’s Council, and even poor Bergan would have to answer for his allegiance to that sorry group. He could deal with the loss of Gretchen and Whitley, the childhood friends he’d shared happiness with; they were drowning in his mind, their voices silent, the memories growing hazy. But one other soul kept gasping for air, fighting to live, poking at his dark heart and crying out his name.

  ‘And what of Drew?’

  Ringlin sighed.

  ‘The Wolf’s dead, Blackhand. As sure as night follows day, the last of the Grey Wolves is gone. If not, where is he? It’s been months since he was last sighted in the carnage of High Stable. If he lived, surely he’d have returned by now, or at the very least been heard from? Certainly if he truly was the man you believed him to be …’

  ‘He was a great man.’

  ‘Was is true. He’s gone. Let him go. Stop thinking he’s going to come back from the dead. Put these doubts away for one last time. You need to be focused when you act. The game draws to a close, my lord; your finest hour approaches. Such distractions don’t befit the Baron of Redmire, the King of Tuskun …’

  ‘And the future Lord of Icegarden,’ added Two Axes from where he stood.

  Hector and Ringlin both turned to the Ugri, as he strode over to stand beside them. Even Ibal leapt up from where he lounged on the quilts, his fat body rolling off the bed.

  ‘Can you see them?’ said Hector, his voice trembling with anticipation.

  ‘They’re in place, as you commanded. They’ve likely been there for days, biding their time, waiting for your arrival.’

  ‘They’ll be half-dead if that’s the case,’ said Ringlin. ‘These mountains are cruel. The cold alone’s caused the death of many Bastians.’

  Two Axes turned and grinned. ‘Their flesh is weak. Ugri are strong, little man. The cold holds no fear.’

  Hector shivered, trying to imagine how grim a night on the mountains might be. He and Bergan’s party had endured the fierce weather in the foothills, the frost and wind biting at their flesh and freezing their extremities. Icegarden was even higher, straddling the mighty Strakenberg. He struggled to imagine anyone surviving a night in the wilds. He smiled: anyone except for the ice warriors of Tuskun.

  ‘They know the signal?’ asked Ringlin.

  ‘A blast from my horn and they’ll come,’ replied Two Axes, returning his gaze to the mountain slopes beyond the walls. Even with the night closing in, the snowfields still shone, the moon throwing her light over the Whitepeaks.

  ‘The remainder of the Boarguard,’ said Hector, a nervous energy in his voice. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They’re in the common room down the hall, my lord,’ said Ringlin, returning to his more formal manner. ‘Say the word and we can have them in position.’

  ‘What of Carver? Where’s he?’

  ‘Next door in a room of his own,’ said Ringlin. ‘It seems that old chamberlain, Janek, actually believes the Thief-lord to be some kind of noble.’

  ‘He can’t be trusted, of course,’ said Hector. ‘He’s a spy. The only reason he accompanied us to Icegarden was so he could keep an eye on me. A friend of Vega’s is an enemy of mine.’

  ‘What would you have us do with him?’

  Hector stepped round his men towards the door, pausing to grab his thick winter cloak from where he’d flung it on a chair.

  ‘Kill him.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  Hector’s face blanched in horror as he secured his cloak. ‘Of course not, Ringlin; we’re not monsters! Have her tied up and kept out of the way. There’ll be plenty of room in the cells once our friends arrive.’

  Ringlin and Ibal sidled past the Boarlord, opening the door and stepping into the corridor. This had to be quick, and preferably silent. The two rogues were the perfect men for the job. Hector craned his neck, glancing up and down the deserted corridor as the duo readied themselves at Carver’s door. Ibal’s sickle was out, glinting in his pudgy hand, while Ringlin weighed a long knife in each of his. Ibal reached out and turned the handle of the guest room, finding it locked. He looked towards Hector, seeking direction. Hector walked closer, nodding, urging them on, Two Axes looming at his shoulder. Ibal braced himself against the wall opposite then charged, striking the wooden door and splintering it at the lock. The timbers twisted as the door gave way with a groan. Ibal and Ringlin shoved at the door, forcing it back, finding to their surprise furniture stacked against it. Hector’s eyes widened with alarm.

  He knew you were coming for him, brother!

  ‘Get in there!’ the Boarlord squealed, glancing furtively up and down the corridor, worried that the noise might alert Henrik’s household staff.

  The pair of thieves kicked the door further open, snatching at the furniture that Carver had stacked against the entrance, shoving it clear. A chest, a cupboard, a coat stand all clattered to the floor as the Boarguard desperately pushed them clear, forcing the door open. Once the gap was wide enough, Ringlin was first through, long knives ready for the waiting Thief-lord. Ibal followed quickly after, then Two Axes and finally Hector.

  The room was empty, the windows wide open, tiny clouds of snowflakes swirling into the chamber. The end of a bed sheet had been knotted round the stone arch that split the frame in two, and the windows creaked on their hinges. Ringlin raced over to the window and looked out, Hector close behind. A trail of knotted sheets flapped in the wind, whipping against the wall all the way to the icy ground below. Hector turned his head, back towards the light of his own room. A trail of small prints was visible in the snow along the thin ledge that ran between each room; a child’s footsteps.

  ‘They heard everything,’ he whispered, staggering back into the room.

  ‘Quickly,’ said Ringlin, wasting no more time. ‘Two Axes, head to the Strakenberg Gate with your warriors. You know what to do!’

  The Ugri stared at Hector, waiting for the command to come from his liege.

  ‘You heard the man!’ cried Hector. ‘To the northern gate!’

  The giant moved fast, hurdling over the broken furniture around the doorway as he sprinted from the room. Hector grabbed hold of Ringlin and Ibal, black hand on the tall one, pink on the short.

  ‘Find Carver and the child,’ he spat, froth on his lips, his eyes narrow with rage. ‘Kill them both!’

  3

  An End to Running

  Gretchen looked out across the frozen river, her eyes fixed on the opposite bank. There was the opening in the treeline, where the stream they’d followed flowed into the larger body of water. Her companion had suggested taking the brook in the hope that it might throw their pursuers off the scent, but Gretchen’s hopes weren’t high. The Wyldermen had tracked them for days now, their calls echoing through the forest, horribly close, whenever they’d prayed they were rid of them. Their calls were silent at present, and the pair had heard nothing for the last few hours.

  ‘Do you think we’ve lost them?’ she said quietly.

  Trent didn’t reply, his back resting against a hollow tree trunk on the forest floor behind her. ‘If the previous week’s anything to go by, I’d prepare for disappointment.’

  Gretchen remained where she stood, staring across the ice.

  ‘Sit down. You must be exhausted, my lady.’

  ‘As must you,’ she snipped, irritated by his patronizing remark.

  ‘Which is why I rest beside this bug-infested log.’ He brushed a hand against the trunk, chasing away a beetle that had burrowed out of the bark to investigate the Redcloak.

  She ignored him, eyes still watching the stream that emerged from the dark forest, searching for signs of the wild men.

  ‘Please, Gretchen,’ said Trent. ‘Si
t and rest.’

  She turned to him. He appeared as different from Drew as she was from Whitley, which was not surprising when one considered they weren’t blood relatives. Whereas Drew was the child of noble stock, the last son of the Grey Wolves of Westland, Trent was the son of ordinary humans, as uncomplicated in lineage as one could imagine. For all that, the brothers had a great deal in common, not least their ability to infuriate her. Trent’s honest manner and straight talking also reminded her of Drew. Gretchen guessed that Mack and Tilly Ferran, the boys’ parents, had instilled the same strong moral code into each of them. Regardless of having different bloodlines and looking utterly dissimilar, the Ferran twins were cut from the same cloth, each equally fascinating to the Werefox.

  Gretchen walked back towards where the outrider lay, pausing to run her hand over Storm’s head. The horse snorted contentedly, nudging her nose against the Lady of Hedgemoor’s palm. She joined Trent on the forest floor, sitting beside him. The log rocked back as she leaned against it, startling the two with the sudden movement.

  ‘Go easy,’ said Trent. ‘The only thing that’s holding it together is beetle dung.’

  The therian girl gave a brief, unladylike snort of laughter, rousing a string of chuckles from the young outrider.

  ‘Do all Wereladies grunt like piglets? Is that something they teach you in court?’

  ‘No, there’s a special class we take in the Dalelands, hosted by the Boarlords. The late Earl Huth taught me everything there is to know about snorting.’

  ‘Boars? I heard that my brother had fallen in with one of them. Is that right?’

  Gretchen nodded. ‘Hector. He’s the Baron of Redmire now. A good man, and a great friend to Drew. They’re as close as …’

  She let the words trail away, suddenly realizing where her comment was heading.

  ‘It’s all right, my lady. You can say it. I won’t take offence. Drew’s no doubt got more in common with the Boarlord than me anyway,’ he said. ‘I doubt your Lord Hector tried to have him killed, to start with.’