Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  Drew kicked out, snapping the first wild man’s leg, and propelling him into the open hatch. The remaining two came straight at him, one jabbing with a spear while the other swung his club. Drew dodged, caught the end of the spear and yanked, pulling the Wylderman in the direction the Werewolf had come from. The man sailed off the landing, following his companion into the night. The third’s club cracked into Drew’s back; his shoulder blade hummed from the impact and the blow propelled him towards the edge. His claws dug into the floorboards, tracking scored lines through the aged timber.

  The club came down again, striking the Werewolf’s temple and sending him crashing to the deck. Drew lashed out with his leg, sweeping the Wylderman’s feet from under him until he toppled beside him. The club went up one more time, but Drew’s hand was quicker, closing round the man’s throat and tearing it from his body. He hopped to his feet, crouching and panting as he surveyed the Great Oak’s walkways through the rain.

  There was little sign of more Wyldermen, Vala having apparently kept the treetop to herself, with the wild men left to gather far below. Interconnecting bridges ran between the Great Oak’s boughs, disappearing into the gloom, the occasional torch guttering in its bracket to throw light on to a platform or building. The greatest number burned around the edge of an enormous structure that sat in the heart of the tree’s giant branches: Brackenholme Hall, the Bearlord’s palace. Drew loped towards it, his feet bouncing off planks as he sped across the walkways through the drizzle.

  The hall dominated the central section of the tree, a series of bridges spanning out and linking it to the surrounding structures. A platform ran round its exterior, while a flight of wide wooden steps led up to an enormous opening, where the torchlight sent shadows dancing across the splintered timbers that had once been double doors. Deep within the hall, Drew could see the glow of a fire at the rear of the great chamber. Arched windows dominated the walls on either side of the entrance, their panes of stained glass shattered, jagged shards littering the walkway alongside the debris from the doors.

  Treading carefully, the Werewolf made his way up the wooden flight, stepping over the pieces of twisted glass and broken timber. His gaze fell upon the hall’s exterior, the wooden posts distorted as if great pressure had been applied to them. A piece of glass, obscured by the shadows, crunched beneath the thick skin of his foot, making Drew wince. It was sure to alert those within of his presence, though it hardly seemed to matter. If they don’t know there’s a battle on below, then they never will.

  He clambered over a broken beam that had fallen from above the door, now reduced to kindling. A few hundred feet ahead, black smoke clogged the vaulted ceiling high above, the fire itself obscured from view by great piles of twisted furniture. The occasional tapestry or painting remained in place on the walls, dimly visible, ripped and defaced by the hall’s new occupant. Others had been torn down, and discoloured woodwork revealed where they’d once hung proud.

  Of Vala, there was no sign. Drew tiptoed through the clutter, eyes searching the shadows for any sudden movement. A huge circular stone hearth housed the fire, and a great black pot straddled it, the contents steaming under the flames’ caress. As Drew passed the pile of wreckage he spied bodies laid out on the floor. Instantly his heart jumped to his mouth: Whitley? He dashed forward, throwing caution to the wind, glancing at the eleven still forms arranged in a line. In some cases, telltale fang marks were visible on their flesh, across their torsos or necks. Whether they were dead or merely unconscious, Drew couldn’t tell at a glance, but his eyes raced over them, searching for his friend. Three Greencapes were shoulder to shoulder, two old men beside them, then a boy, little older than Milo. Two serving girls lay motionless beside the boy, followed by two noblewomen, their arms crossed over their chests. The last in the row was an old lady, her withered face as still as a corpse, one eye missing, her puckered lips shrivelled in a death mask.

  Whitley wasn’t there. Drew jumped over the bodies, his lycanthrope feet landing silently as he looked frantically for the Bearlady. Dear Brenn, no, he thought. Don’t let her be gone. Please no! Beyond the dim noise of battle far below, a new sound captured Drew’s attention. He looked up.

  Suspended from the rafters at the back of the hall, bound in ropes and securely gagged, spun Whitley. Her body twisted on the rope as she bucked, clearly alive, her eyes wide as she saw Drew below. Drew bounded across the hall until he stood beneath her. She was at least twenty feet above his head, out of the reach of even a leaping therian. His eyes followed the path of the rope as it wound round the rafters and then straight down the wall at the rear of the throne room. The Werewolf sprinted to the rope’s end, twined and knotted round the base of Duke Bergan’s huge chair. He worked at the hemp, putting his teeth to the knot and worrying it loose, his eyes looking up at his friend all the while. Finally, the rope went slack, Drew snatching it in a clawed hand and letting it run through his grip. His palm burned as the rope passed through it, taking the weight of the Bearlady as she descended from the ceiling, turning all the while. Eventually the girl landed on the floor where she lay in a cocoon of rope. He ran across.

  All the worry and fear that he’d bottled up in the past months came to the surface as he tore at her ropes. Drew’s hand was shifting back to its human state, tears flowing down his cheeks as the Wolf retreated, his joy at being reunited with his friend overwhelming. Whitley kicked at the ropes, trying to worry them loose from her feet, her eyes fixed on the bodies on the floor. Drew yanked at the bonds round her wrists, ripping them away, as Whitley’s freed hands went straight for her gag.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you forever,’ laughed Drew through the tears, delirious with relief as he ran his hand through her hair.

  Whitley tugged the gag loose, spluttering, her eyes still fixed on the bodies. Drew turned, following her gaze. There they were: ten of them. One was missing. Drew rose to his feet, the hairs standing up on his neck, the Wolf’s growl rising in his throat. The old woman was gone.

  Whitley coughed, her voice reed thin. ‘Vala,’ she said.

  Drew stepped in front of her, lowering his shortened arm to help her climb from the floor to his side.

  ‘Show yourself, Vala,’ shouted Drew, his face wet with tears but now set with grim determination.

  ‘Ssssilly Wolf.’ Her voice echoed around the room, but the Wereserpent remained hidden in the darkness. ‘I have waited sssso long for thissss. What’ssss the hurry, sssson of Wergar? Let ussss ssssavour our reunion.’

  Drew squinted, as the flames from the fire-pit hampered his vision. The hearth was directly before him, below the dais, and the rest of the room was shrouded in shadows. Still the sound of battle could be heard, faint and far below. He turned to Whitley.

  ‘Stay behind me,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t put yourself in harm’s way. If you can get out, run for it.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere: my mother’s down there,’ she croaked, pointing towards the lifeless bodies.

  ‘Don’t you know it’ssss rude to whissssper, boy?’

  Drew raised his voice again.

  ‘It’s rude to eavesdrop, my lady!’

  ‘Poor little pup. What hassss happened to hissss paw?’

  Drew glanced at the stump of his left arm as Vala continued.

  ‘The one-handed man sssshall fall: that’ssss what they ssssay, issssn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what who says?’ asked Drew, thrown by her riddling talk. ‘If you’ve something to tell me, my lady, pray spit it out!’

  ‘Propheciessss, child,’ she hissed cryptically. ‘I have misssssed our little chatssss.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too, my lady. I never truly got to say goodbye, our parting was so hurried. Did my flight offend you that much? It seems a woman scorned can hold a grudge for a surprisingly long time.’

  Something large and dark raced through the shadows beyond the giant pile of ruined furniture, vanishing again in an instant.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about time, Wolf. I
am agelessss, I have lived for centuriessss in the woodssss of Lysssssia. Now, after all thesssse years, I claim the home of the Bearlordssss assss my own! You couldn’t imagine the depth of vengeance that runssss through my blood.’

  Drew focused his exhausted body, embracing the beast for one last time. The Wereserpent had talked enough: she had to answer for her crimes. He felt the hairs coursing over his skin, chest and ribs expanding as his skull shifted. He grimaced as his teeth tore through his widening, lengthening gums, the lips of his muzzle peeling back with a growl.

  ‘Let’s see that proud blood you boast of then, Vala. Do your worst!’

  Drew unleashed a howl, the noise thundering through the hall like a gale and rushing out of the shattered doors. The noise was primal, erupting from his core, a rallying cry to his brethren and allies. All below in the city and beyond the walls heard the Wolf’s call, and those who yet lived and fought in his name found renewed strength and purpose in their weary hearts and limbs.

  The Werewolf took two steps, growling, watching the shadows. He saw the Wereserpent’s tail whip out from behind the stack of broken trappings, making him leap back up the dais. But the strike wasn’t aimed at the Wolf. The tail connected with the black cauldron, the pot ringing like a bell as it tipped, spilling its contents over the fire. The flames were instantly doused by the boiling water, and a great cloud of choking steam and smoke billowed from the hearth, filling the hall.

  The Wolf was blind in the steaming fog, his mind racing back to his first terrifying encounter with Vala so long ago. His heart thundered, his fear of the Wyrm all too real and fresh in his memory. One long, malevolent hiss broke the silence. Hurriedly, Drew unsheathed Moonbrand, whipping the glowing blade from the leather loop on his back, illuminating the hot smoke that surrounded him. The pale light of the longsword pierced the gloom as the Wereserpent rushed towards him.

  7

  Beneath the Ice

  A wolf’s distant howl made all but one of the seven Wyldermen look up from the banks of the frozen stream. Their leader ignored the beast’s cry, his eyes settling on the ice before him. Blacktooth stared down the watercourse and smiled, his sharp, filthy teeth breaking into a crooked grin. Stupid, soft townsfolk. Try to outwit him by taking the stream bed? When frozen? His laugh was guttural. Thought they could lose Blacktooth and his Blood Feathers by that old trick, did they?

  He stepped down the incline, following the hoof prints of his prey. He’d left ten of his warriors to go after the old man, but the young ones would be Blacktooth’s. He didn’t care about what happened in Brackenholme now. He wasn’t going to sit around on a gate watching Wyldermen come and go. He was born to hunt, and the hunting was good. He traced a finger along the scar the boy’s sword had left down the side of his face, the tip running over the gnarled scab. The boy in the red cloak would suffer most of all.

  The warrior said nothing to his men, but a glance told them to follow him. Blacktooth clambered down on to the frozen water and stepped forward, his tribe falling in behind, following the brook’s course. It began to widen, the stream gradually running into a river, one of the many that wound their way through the Dyrewood. He raised a hand, signalling his men to stop, as he looked out over the larger body of water.

  A sheet of ice spread out before him, winter having transformed the water into a shining blue road in each direction. The canopy arched over the river, tree branches twining against one another from either bank casting a crazed pattern of shadows across the ice below. Blacktooth’s breath caught in his throat. On the opposite bank a fire burned low, and a brown horse was tethered to a tree. Two figures lay together beside the dying flames, the unmistakable red cloak of the boy clearly visible, shrouding them. The warrior made a motion with his hand, ordering the Blood Feathers to fan out, three flanking him as he stepped out on to the frozen river.

  The Wyldermen unhitched their weapons, axes, clubs, spears and knives shifting in their hands, eyes fixed on the figures ahead. The horse snorted, stopping their progress for a moment. It threw up its head, giving a gentle whinny. Had it seen them? When the sleeping figures didn’t stir, Blacktooth advanced once more, his men following in a V-shaped formation on either side of him.

  Reaching the centre of the river, the warrior could feel his heart racing, so close to the kill. They would eat tonight, feast on the flesh of these pale fools! The ice groaned beneath him, a crack appearing suddenly and snaking out from beneath his bare toes. Blacktooth slid his feet forward, pointing to the ice with his axe, the Blood Feathers following his lead. Each of the Wyldermen kept both feet on the ice’s fragile surface, edging on slowly, tentatively. It slowed their progress, but prevented them from ending up in the water below.

  A snapping sound from the opposite bank made the wild men look up from the river; it was followed by a cracking noise in the canopy overhead. Branches splintered as a large dark shape descended at great speed. Blacktooth dived forward, throwing caution to the wind, as a gnarled section of tree trunk crashed into the frozen river among his Blood Feather brethren. The river exploded, huge sheets of ice splintering up, tipping the Wyldermen off their feet. Some dived for the ice as it fractured into a hundred pieces, others disappearing below the surface. The cracks spread, the sheets of ice disintegrating beneath the bodies of the panicked wild men. Only Blacktooth and two others avoided the swift, deadly pull of the river’s current. The warrior looked up, his scarred face contorting with rage as two figures emerged from the trees on either side of the campsite.

  Trent stepped on to the river, Wolfshead blade trailing at his side, tattered leather boots testing the ice’s strength. It was still firm by the bank, although the cracks from the trunk’s impact had sent shockwaves and fault lines running right to the river’s edge. He glanced back at Gretchen, who held her hunting dagger before her in both hands, one foot stepping towards the frozen river.

  ‘Get back,’ Trent said. ‘Stay on the bank: it’s not safe!’

  ‘There are three of them, Ferran,’ she said sharply, her eyes never leaving the Wyldermen as they scrambled forward over the shattered ice floes.

  She’s not wrong, thought Trent. At first he’d thought Gretchen had gone mad, suggesting they should start a fire that evening. If they were to face the Wyldermen, stealth should have been the key, a surprise attack that the wild men weren’t expecting. But the Werefox was far craftier than he’d expected. The rotten trunk, the vines and the ice; Gretchen had seen it all, piecing together a plan while Trent still wondered where they should set up their ambush.

  It had taken their combined strength to haul the trunk into the canopy, and Trent had fashioned a makeshift rope out of vines to raise it into position. So much had gone right, yet still three Wyldermen remained standing.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ he shouted to Gretchen, who had taken another step forward.

  The Werelady growled, not used to taking orders, especially from a human. He didn’t care. He’d let Drew down in a stupendous manner, believing the lies of Prince Lucas, Lord Frost and the others. He would never doubt Drew again, and he would die before letting Gretchen come to any harm.

  Trent watched the Wyldermen fan out. The lead warrior swung his axe through the air in front of Trent as his two companions moved to flank the Redcloak. Trent faced him, backing away and changing position, aware that they were trying to surround him. He kept the shore to his right and the river’s centre to his left. Trent held the black-toothed leader’s attention, inviting one of the Wyldermen to move closer to the bank, as the last of them was drawn back towards the broken ice. Gretchen backed away, wary of the one nearest the shore, but the wild man’s eyes were fixed on the Redcloak, the warrior having already dismissed any threat from the girl.

  As the group rotated about Trent, the last of them was finally directly to his left. Trent wasted no time, lunging at him with the sword. The wild man was out of reach, but the sudden attack caused him to back away a couple of paces, where the weakened ice creaked and groaned u
nder his weight. His arms went out, spear wobbling as he tried to balance. Trent took one more step, ignoring the advancing leader and the one man at his back, and with both hands drove the Wolfshead blade into the ice before him. The shining surface shattered like glass, sending a ravine through the ice floe that ran straight to the Wylderman’s feet. The fragile crystal platform collapsed beneath him, and the wild man sank with a scream and a splash, his body swiftly carried away beneath the ice.

  Trent tugged at the sword as the lead warrior’s axe came down, but it was stuck fast, leaving him for a split second between life and death. He rolled back, tumbling clear, as the axe sent powdered ice into the air where he’d stood. The black-toothed warrior swung again, as Trent scrambled clear, feeling the ice groan beneath his frantic retreat. The axe blows came thick and fast, scything and slashing and only narrowly missing him. He cried out as he struggled desperately to evade the warrior, the arrow wound in his shoulder tearing open through the exertion, his blood rushing out anew.

  The other Wylderman was circling, dashing along the river’s frozen edge, trying to get behind Trent, intent upon a rear attack. He didn’t see Gretchen leap from the bank, and she landed on the wild man’s back. Her blade came down towards his neck, but the power of the impact sent them both rolling on to the ice, the knife lunge going wide as the warrior’s club flew from his grasp. Skidding to a halt, Gretchen was up on her feet again as he struggled to rise. She kicked out, her heel catching him across the jaw and sending his head flying back. As he fell she pounced, the knife clutched in her hands, arcing down.