Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  The Wylderman’s knees rose, catching her in the stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. The knife-blow bounced ineffectually on to the ice beside them, and the warrior hauled Gretchen over his head as she came crashing down on her back. The Wylderman’s club having skittered from his grasp, he now attacked with his bare hands, filthy fingers closing round Gretchen’s throat. She moved to stab him, but his bony knee landed on her forearm, pinning it in place. He ground it down, forcing the hunting knife from her grip.

  Trent was also in trouble. The ice was splintering beneath him, and the surface ran red with his blood as the black-toothed warrior forced him ever nearer the surging water. He kicked out, and the old wild man leapt clear, giving Trent just enough time to scramble back along the crumbling ice in the direction of his sword. But the Wylderman blocked the move, bringing the axe back down when the youth was only a yard from the blade. Trent turned his face, as the flint head caught him a glancing blow and propelled him towards the water. He threw out a desperate hand, finding the Wolfshead blade. His fingers closed round the shining steel edge, provoking a scream of agony from the Redcloak but halting his slide. The two smallest fingers of his left hand lay severed beside the sword where it was buried in the ice, perfect red pools round each of them.

  Gretchen spluttered, her eyes bulging as the wild man throttled her, striking her head against the ice. He opened his mouth, sharp teeth slimy with spittle as he brought them down to her face. But by the time his jaws were close to biting point, he faced a very different foe. Russet red hairs had sprouted around her jaw, her hairline closing in around her features as they distorted, shifting into those of the Fox. Her muzzle snapped, catching hold of the Wylderman’s lower lip and tearing it from his face. The wild man instantly released his grip, sitting upright on top of Gretchen, his jaw awash with blood as the Werefox lashed out. A succession of blows pounded the Wylderman’s face, crumpling his features as she spent her rage upon him. Her clawed hands tore across his unprotected body, striking home and rending the flesh. The warrior looked down, eyes widening, as twin sets of red ribbons appeared in his belly, the claws gouging deep and deadly slashes through his torso. A final shove from Gretchen sent the man tumbling lifelessly away, his body slipping through the broken ice and into the freezing river.

  The Wyldermen’s leader raised his axe one last time, standing over the young Redcloak who lay helpless on the ice. With a loud cracking noise, the ice floe tilted suddenly, and a jagged platform appeared around the two combatants. Trent held on to the blade for dear life as his feet dipped into the freezing water. The warrior fell, axe flying and landing on the floe as it separated from the ice that adjoined the shore. The platform bobbed back the other way, and the wild man began to slide back as Trent now rose back out of the water. The warrior lashed out with both hands, also grabbing the blade above Trent’s grip. The two remained there for a moment before the Wylderman’s greater weight began to tilt the ice back his way. Slowly his feet were submerged, followed by his legs, as Trent was able to right himself above him. He stamped down on the warrior’s hand as his body came round, and the black-toothed monster let out a fleeting cry as he released his hold on the Wolfshead blade and disappeared beneath the river, carried away by the voracious current.

  With the Wylderman gone, the ice floe crashed back down into the water, Trent its sole passenger as it spun into the heart of the river. He snatched at the handle of the Wolfshead blade, looking to the shore as Gretchen, part-transformed, edged across the fragile ice towards him, her arms outstretched.

  ‘Jump, Trent! Leap to me, quick, and I’ll catch you!’

  He looked at the sword in his hands. His father’s sword: the weapon of the Wolfguard. I can’t leave it behind, Pa. I can’t …

  Trent pulled with all his might, his bloodied palms trembling as he ripped it free. As the blade emerged from the ice, the twirling platform crumbled beneath his feet, plunging him down into the dark and deadly water. He held his breath, clutching the sword as the current buffeted him, hauling him into the darkness. He kicked for the surface, finding only a sheet of crystalline ice waiting for him, the stars dim in the night sky beyond. Bubbles raced from his mouth and nose as his remaining fingers clawed at the ice, his sword bouncing ineffectually off the clear coffin lid.

  As Trent’s last breaths escaped his lungs in a fountain of bubbles, he felt hands grabbing him, snatching at his breastplate from above. Claws connected with the leather, halting his passage, while the water still tugged at him, trying to wrestle him from his rescuer’s grasp. But his saviour wouldn’t be beaten by the current. The hands didn’t relinquish their grip, holding firm, inching him slowly up to the shattered hole above. His head emerged from the water as Gretchen dragged him higher, one set of claws over the other as she freed him from the river’s dark embrace.

  Hauling him clear, Gretchen stumbled as she went, coming closer to the shore with each faltering footfall. She collapsed, rolling Trent over as he let the Wolfshead blade clatter to the ice, coughing up lungfuls of foul water, his battered body exhausted. Gretchen cradled him in her lap, steam billowing from their bodies into the frigid night air, nursing his face with broken knuckles. He held her clawed hands in his, examining the cracked and shattered fingers she’d used to pound the ice and break him free. She kissed him on the forehead tenderly. He raised his head, catching her lips with his own.

  The Lady of Hedgemoor and the youth from the Cold Coast held one another as the howling of wolves echoed distantly in the Dyrewood.

  8

  The Call of the Wolf

  The Wyldermen circled like a pack of wild dogs closing in for the kill. Of the freed people of Brackenholme only twenty remained, the bodies of their brethren littering the floor around the Great Oak alongside a multitude of slain wild men. Harker, Red Rufus and Milo stood their ground in front of the weary soldiers, awaiting the onslaught. The avianthrope looked down at the wound in his hip, the broken arrow shaft jutting from his bloody flank. Harker breathed heavily while the Werehawk flexed his battered wings. Hundreds of Wyldermen surrounded them. They had withdrawn to regroup, and waited to deal the killing blows. The assembled horde carried the markings of over more than thirty different tribes, each keen to participate in the slaughter. The lull in battle allowed Harker and Red Rufus to inspect one another’s wounds.

  ‘Hell of a way to crash to earth, Hawklord,’ said Harker through bloodied teeth. He held a flint axe, his free hand clutching a leg wound that ran red.

  ‘Was heading for Windfell: must have been blown off-course,’ said the Werehawk, his wings hacked and tattered by the enemies’ blows. Milo, the boy Staglord, snarled beside him, his shortsword raised and ready.

  ‘I’d blame the winter winds,’ said Harker, his gallows humour provoking no laughter from his exhausted comrade. He shifted the axe in his battered grip. Rank upon rank of Wyldermen lined up, ready for the final attack. The whispered prayers of the surviving Greencloaks echoed like a ghostly chorus around the Great Oak.

  Red Rufus was well aware that the end was nigh: once the wild men came at them, the Greencloaks and he would be crushed beneath a wave of weapons. He looked down at Milo, and the lad glanced up at him.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure to fight by your side, Staglord,’ said the Werehawk. The boy’s fierce expression softened, as if realizing this was Red Rufus’s way of saying goodbye. Milo said nothing, nodding his understanding to the old Hawk and turning back to the Wyldermen.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ bellowed Red Rufus, clawing at the muddy earth with his huge taloned feet.

  The line of Wyldermen rippled, some stumbling back warily, as the Hawklord let loose a bloodcurdling cry. The twang of a bow preceded the whistle of an arrow, as a deadly missile sailed from the horde towards the screaming Werehawk. It never hit its target. Milo was fast, leaping up in front of the old Hawk, the arrow striking home and dropping him to the cold, bloody mud.

  Red Rufus looked down at Milo’s body. When the Hawk�
��s head came up, his huge eyes were black as pitch and he was bent upon vengeance. He screeched and bounded over the boy, long knife raised, Harker and the Greencloaks following. Before they could meet, the Wyldermen’s ranks broke, as a new enemy assaulted them from behind. The Hawklord caught the snarls and growls, not from the wild men, but from the beasts that tore into them. As his knife cut into the first Wylderman, he saw flashes of grey fur, the colour of dark steel.

  The wolves had come.

  Whitley rose from the floor beside the dais, a hand to her forehead. She blinked as warm liquid pooled in the corner of her eye, the deep gash along her brow bleeding profusely. It had all happened so fast. The fire had been doused by Vala, plunging the room into an impenetrable fog, and no sooner had Drew unsheathed his sword than the Wereserpent had struck.

  Vala went straight for Drew, her attack entirely focused on the young Wolflord, Whitley having served her purpose. She was the bait in the Serpent’s trap, the lure that had brought her the Werewolf. Whitley had bounded forward, trying to draw the charge away from her friend, but the tail end of the giant snake had lashed out like a bullwhip, striking her in the chest and catapulting her back up the steps into her father’s throne. She had lain there for a moment, concussed, staring into the hot smoke as it rolled overhead.

  The sounds of battle gradually attracted her attention, pulling her from her stupor as she caught sight of Drew’s pale blue sword cutting through the smog. Occasionally the glowing blade flashed away, swallowed by the shadows that raced around it, the Wereserpent’s coils swirling round the Wolflord like a monstrous vortex. Drew lashed out, deflecting blows from the creature, battered this way and that by her relentless barrage. Another snap from the tail sent the sword flying from the Wolf’s hand, and it clattered to the floor in the darkness.

  Whitley staggered down the steps, gathering her senses. The steam and smoke boiled around her, choking and blinding her in equal measure. She stumbled, tripping over something large and heavy at her feet. She dropped to her knees, feeling the lifeless form of one of Vala’s bound prisoners, laid out across the floor like the dead on a battlefield. She craned her neck, lifting the limp body until she could make out its face. It was one of the serving girls from the hall’s kitchens, her skin icy to the touch, her death having been anything but peaceful. The duchess lay somewhere else in the gloom, beside her lady-in-waiting, Vala having struck each survivor in turn before laying them down in the neat row. Was she also dead, had the poison worked its foul magic on the duchess? Whitley gently lowered the girl’s head to the floor, as Drew’s pained roars pulled her to her feet. Her immediate concern was her friend, and the danger he was in. As she rose, she felt a growl emanating from the centre of her torso, her ribs reverberating as it slowly grew. Hot tears raced down her face as she grimaced, her teeth aching, thrumming, threatening to tear free. She advanced through the darkness towards the two battling therianthropes, each growing more distinct with every footstep.

  Vala had Drew wrapped tightly in her enormous black coils, her bright purple underbelly pulsing as she constricted her victim. Whitley snarled, and the Bear’s fangs burst through her straining gums with a rush of blood. Black claws emerged from her fingertips, her delicate hands shifting in size from those of a girl to the broader, heavier paw of the beast. She leapt forward, arms raised, slashing down to cut mighty gashes through the snake’s tight skin. White flesh bulged from the wounds, dark blood arcing as the Wereserpent released her grip. The beast unwound itself from the young Werewolf, striking Whitley hard and sending her tumbling into the fire-pit. She rolled away, covered in nuggets of smoking coal.

  Wolf and Bearlady were briefly reunited, Drew dashing to Whitley’s aid as she hauled herself to her feet. Before Drew could speak, the Serpent’s rattling tail whipped out of the smoke again, snaring Whitley round the ankle and hurling her into the ramshackle nest.

  ‘Sssstay out of thissss, little urssssanthrope! Your time sssshall come ssssoon enough!’

  Whitley felt as if Brackenholme Hall had collapsed on top of her, timber, rubble and broken furniture striking her. Chairs, desks, beams from the ceiling; all manner of splintering, shattering objects landed on top of her as the Wereserpent’s lair threatened to bury her. The tail disengaged from her leg, slithering away, leaving the Bearlady for dead.

  Whitley lay motionless as the rubble continued to fall, buried in the wreckage of her father’s throne room. Her mouth and lips were coated with dust and blood, her eyes refusing to focus as her limbs failed to respond. She wanted to move, to free herself from the mass of twisted timber, but all strength had fled her weary body. Am I to lie here, broken and beaten, while Drew faces Vala alone? He’s travelled from Brenn knows where to come to our aid. He’s lost a hand, his loved ones and friends no doubt – faced so many horrors and still risks everything to save me: how can I possibly help him?

  Nearby, she could hear the Wereserpent preparing for the killing blow, Vala’s laughter cutting through the dark like a dagger, while the Werewolf was helpless in her coils, utterly at her mercy. With lightning-quick strikes her head battered Drew, smashing him repeatedly, each blow like that of a warhammer. Whitley turned her head to one side in the rubble, her every movement agony, and her eyes drawn to a pale blue light nearby. The object was solid, substantial, and the thin band of illumination stood out starkly against the dark, the gloom ripped open by an azure flash. Stretching and straining, she reached out, fingers trembling as her claws snagged the white gemstone at one end. Whitley tugged, drawing the object closer, and the blue light moved across the floor.

  She felt the handle of Drew’s sword in her palm, her fingers tightening round its white leather binding. She thought about her father, her brother, her mother and family. She thought about Brackenholme and the atrocities the Wyldermen had carried out in Vala’s name. She thought about Drew, close to death in the Wereserpent’s grasp. And just when she thought all hope was gone, her courage and strength began to build, a catching, flickering flame like the glow of the pale blue sword.

  ‘Thesssse are your lasssst breathssss, Wolflord,’ said Vala. ‘Your people die below ussss, my Wyldermen sssslaughter them assss I sssspeak. We sssshall have a banquet thisss night, with your flessssh the greatesssst offering to the Wyrm Goddessss!’

  Drew clawed in vain with his one good hand, but Vala tightened her grip, working her coils over his body, drawing him in, his arms disappearing beneath her squeezing flesh. Her head swayed above him, one emerald eye fixed on him, the other missing, a weeping wound in its place.

  ‘Who spoiled your pretty features, Vala? You had two eyes the last time we met!’

  ‘Your red-haired lady friend did thissss!’ she spat, rage coursing through her and rattling Drew’s bones. ‘There will be a reckoning. I sssshall dine on Fox after I’ve had my fill of Wolf and Bear!’

  Drew saw Moonbrand rise in the air behind Vala, levitating in the gloom as if by magic; his eyes widened, unable to hide his surprise. The Serpent noticed and turned suddenly, whipping her head round as the sword cut through the steam and smoke.

  Whitley unleashed a roar as she plunged the blade home, Moonbrand disappearing into the Wereserpent’s good eye. Vala rolled and spun, lashing out with her tail, but the Werebear held on tight, the sword stuck fast, embedded in the monster’s huge skull. With each thrash and judder, the coils slackened, until Drew was able to pull his arms free. Into the black flesh went the clawed hand, down into the skin went his teeth, as lycanthrope joined ursanthrope against their foe.

  The Werebear held on tightly to the Serpent, as Vala heaved her head one way and then the other. One clawed paw remained buried into the Wyrm’s scales while the other kept a tight grip on the sword handle, refusing to relinquish her hold. Vala’s head came back down, snapping inches away from Drew, her wound lit up in grisly detail by Moonbrand’s pale blue light. She was striking blind, her fangs ripping into her own skin as she tried to find the Wolf in her coils and to throw the Bear from her head.


  Vala trembled suddenly, as the Werebear shifted on top of her enormous, hooded head. Whitley reached down with her free hand into the gap between Vala’s fangs. Her claws sank into the soft flesh of the Wyrm’s upper palate, taking a firm grip. She tugged hard, yanking the Serpent’s head back. As the Werebear pulled at the top of Vala’s huge skull, the Werewolf threw all his strength on to the bottom of it, his claws digging deep into the pink muscle of her jaw.

  Wolf and Bear roared as one as they tore the Wereserpent’s jaws apart with a sickening snap, the monster’s head and body going instantly limp, leaving the two therianthropes to tumble to the floor. Drew pushed the rolls of Vala’s flesh away, crawling over the beast until he could take Whitley in his arms.

  Standing over the slain Wereserpent, the two held one another, no words needing to be spoken. Their human selves were fast reappearing, dark fur shifting beneath their skin as warm flesh touched. In a moment, they were just a young man and woman, alone in a sea of smoke.

  9

  The Bone and the Bargain

  Step a little closer, dear brother. It can’t hurt …

  Hector edged closer towards the parapet edge, goaded on by his dead brother’s words as the wind raced around him. The vile flitted across his shoulders, whispering in his ears, its excitement building as the magister neared the precipice. A tumbledown wall, barely a foot high, was the only barrier, and great pieces of masonry were missing where time and the elements had worked their magic. The Boarlord stopped suddenly, a squall of snow battering the tower top and blinding him momentarily. He raised his blackened hand across his face, covering his eyes until the blizzard cleared. The wind dropped, the snowstorm lessening, allowing him to look out over Sturmland once more, standing atop the giant tower known to all as the Bone.