‘Working him hard?’ said the Bearlord. Earl Mikkel shrugged.
‘No harder than my father worked us. He has fine natural ability, but he’s raw. A diamond in the rough if you will. He has the makings of as great a warrior as Wergar, but he needs guidance. What did my father say? Mastery of the blade and the beast.’
‘In which case, he’s in very capable hands.’
The Lords of Stormdale had traditionally trained many of Lyssia’s Werelords – the Werestags were well known for their passive nature until enraged, but also their wisdom and patience: considered in court, ferocious in battle. As teachers of many of the Seven Realms’ rulers the Stags were held in high esteem.
‘Well, there’s just the unpleasant business of revealing our plans to Lady Gretchen then,’ sighed Bergan. Telling her she was to return to her homeland was an unpalatable task for even the hardiest Werelord. Despite her young age, Gretchen was formidable, quick to anger. She’d got her way down the years, spoiled unsurprisingly by Earl Gaston of Hedgemoor as his only child. As the betrothed of Lucas her confidence had blossomed to such a degree that there were very few people she wouldn’t stand up to, bar Queen Amelie or perhaps Bergan. With that knowledge at the back of his mind, the decision of who should tell the Werefox was easy for Bergan.
‘Hector,’ he said, and the Boarlord jumped. Bergan laughed. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I’m not going to land this on you. No, I’d like you to go to Drew at Buck House. If he’s still training then there’s a fine chance that Gretchen is in close vicinity. Can you ask her to make her way back to Traitors’ House? Tell her it’s urgent Wolf’s Council business. I’ll deliver the news to her when she arrives. We’ll get her packed and ready to leave before first light tomorrow. A quiet affair, we’ll draw no attention. Broghan, prepare some of your best men – five branches should do it.’
‘Five branches: thirty of Brackenholme’s best men,’ nodded Broghan. The branch system of the Dyrewood created a brotherhood among the soldiers. These small teams – five men and one captain – were as close as family.
The men shook hands as the Wolf’s Council was adjourned until the next day. Bergan followed Hector to the door, handing the Boarlord his red cloak that bore the crest of Redmire.
‘Your father would be proud of you, lad. Your actions, your aid, your wits – they’ve been invaluable since the Lion was defeated. I may not say it often, Hector, but I’m glad Drew can call you his friend. You’ve been good for each other.’
Hector smiled shyly, his chest filling out as the warm words washed over him.
‘I know I was soft before I met Drew,’ said Hector, keeping his voice low and out of earshot of the others. ‘But he’s toughened me up. I’ve discovered my backbone; I just need to make sure I don’t misplace it again!’
Bergan chortled.
‘Don’t underestimate the influence you’ve had on him, Hector,’ said Bergan, wagging a big forefinger. ‘These things run both ways. Drew has entered a new world, and he’d have been lost without you by his side. You’re the compass that’s kept him going straight as an arrow.’
‘My lord.’ The magister bowed briefly before stepping out into the corridor and heading down the monstrous staircase. Duke Bergan watched him go, grateful that the Wolf’s Council and Drew had such a friend in the young Boarlord.
2
The Blade and the Beast
‘Back on your feet,’ barked Duke Manfred, towering over the fallen youth, cold steel in hand. Drew squinted up at him, sweat pooling in the corners of each eye. He wiped a forearm across his face, clearing his vision and catching his breath. The Staglord had the sun at his back, casting his whole frame into silhouette and making the already tall man even more imposing. Drew could see that the Werelord was breathing heavily, but he was far from spent. Unlike Drew. He spat on the ground, bloody spittle rolling in the dry dirt. His entire body ached, pushed to the point of exhaustion. The sword lay at the feet of the duke, just out of reach. Manfred kicked it across to him.
‘I said on your feet.’
Drew picked up the blunt sword and used it as a crutch to haul himself upright once more. Manfred was relentless, keeping Drew on his toes at all times. From sunrise each day no moment was wasted. Days at Buck House were full for Drew – combat was just a small part of it. Therian races, Lyssian geography, etiquette: the Staglord’s lessons were all encompassing. Manfred had taken special care to school Drew in controlling his lycanthropy. The late Baron Huth, Hector’s father, had taught Drew some meditations and mantras during his brief stay in Redmire, but the old Boarlord had only scratched the surface. Manfred went much deeper, encouraging Drew to explore every facet of the Wolf. His lycanthropy mastery was the only lesson that was held out of sight of spectators, deep within the wine cellars of Buck House. Here, it was quiet, cool and dark, the perfect place to channel the beast undisturbed.
Drew rose to his full height, weighing the training sword in his right hand as he gathered his senses. His left hand rested at his hip, clenched into a fist. The stump where his little finger used to be still ached, a constant reminder of his battle with Vanmorten, the Wererat, that life as a Werelord could be deadly. Manfred smiled. Drew grimaced, annoyed that the Werelord was showing little sign of stress. The heat of the mid-morning sun only compounded Drew’s weariness. He’d long ago ditched his shirt and now stood in nothing but his leather breeches. Manfred, in comparison, remained fully clothed, his long grey cloak thrown back off his shoulder. Drew was also painfully aware of the audience watching from the balcony of the mansion; Lady Gretchen and her ladies-in-waiting, keen to see the future king showing off his fencing talents. What they actually saw, to Drew’s dismay, was a healthy young man failing to measure up to a venerable old Werelord.
‘One more round, Drew, and you may take water.’
Duke Manfred’s close aide, Magister Kohl, stood nearby under the shade of a fig tree, a jug of water at his feet. Drew glanced at the old man who reached a hand down to pat the jug’s rim. A cousin of Manfred, Kohl was a Stag whom Drew had seen plenty of in the last month, but he was in no mood for the magister’s gentle taunts. He was harmless but quick-witted, reminding Drew of Hector in many ways.
Drew readied himself, pumping life into his legs as he rocked on his heels. He watched Manfred intently, deciding on whether his next move would provoke delight or dismay. He no longer cared – he’d spent the last two hours being knocked around the courtyard by the Stag: by fair means or foul he wanted to win at least one bout with the old duke.
He paced to his left, drawing Manfred into following. The Werestag’s steps seemed relaxed, but Drew realized that was just experience showing. Every move Manfred made was considered and deliberate. Drew kept moving, circling so that behind him stood the mansion and balcony. And the sun.
Manfred squinted. No amount of training allowed a man to stare wide-eyed into the sun. Drew flung his left hand forward.
The dirt in his clenched fist erupted from his hand, flying fast into the Staglord’s face. Manfred staggered back, blinded by the cloud of dust. It was Drew’s turn to grin now. He even allowed himself a quick glance over his shoulder at the onlookers. Gretchen was frowning in disapproval. Drew wouldn’t allow this to concern him – anyone who had survived a scrap in Tuckborough wouldn’t argue with these tactics, and Drew and his brother Trent had experienced their share of them. A fight was a fight.
Kohl stepped forward, about to shout his objections, so Drew moved fast and lunged at the stricken Werelord, his foot landing in the dirt as he thrust the blunt blade forward. To his dismay the combat didn’t play out as he’d planned.
Instinctively Manfred moved to his left as the sword flew past him. Drew, unbalanced, stumbled and Manfred swept his right leg round in a fluid motion, connecting with Drew’s shins and sending him flying. The young Wolf landed spread-eagled on the floor, his face full of dirt once more, the air escaping his lungs. He didn’t have time to recover, feeling a hand clasp him by the shoulder and spi
n him on to his back. Manfred landed on him, his knees pinning the youth to the ground as he bucked beneath. The Werestag’s hand shot out, grabbing Drew by the throat and holding him still. Drew stopped struggling, looking up at the Staglord as he straddled him. His eyes were still closed, blinded by the dirt flung into them.
‘A most ungracious stunt to pull on his lordship,’ said Kohl, rushing forward and shaking his head furiously. ‘There are rules, young man: rules to fencing, rules to duelling. That was … unlawful!’
Manfred raised a hand, laughing, waving Kohl away with a smile.
‘Oh hush, Kohl. The boy was acting just as I did. Instinct. Survival. Two sides of the same coin. His instincts told him to improvise.’
Manfred released his grip on Drew’s throat, allowing him to breathe in deeply. The duke rubbed the dirt from his eyes as his sight returned.
‘Well done, Drew. Taught an old Stag a trick there. Just remember, though.’ He pointed to his eyes. ‘Sight isn’t the only sense one depends on in battle.’ He gripped the lobe of his ear and waggled it. ‘You hear me?’
Manfred got up and held his hand down to Drew. Face crimson with a mixture of shame and embarrassment, Drew took it as Manfred hauled him to his feet.
‘Let’s see about having that drink now, eh?’
Magister Kohl, disgruntled but mindful of his liege’s words, filled two wooden cups with water. Drew took one and gulped it down. Having polished off its contents, he held his cup out once again.
‘Please, magister,’ he said, bowing his head respectfully. ‘Another drink?’
Sighing but forgiving, Kohl refilled the vessel, winking at Drew once his temper faded. The old sage couldn’t stay angry for long. Drew smiled. He’d probably pull the same trick again given half the chance. Next time, though, he wouldn’t let his opponent hear him coming. Manfred was watching him from beneath bushy grey eyebrows. As Kohl left them beneath the tree, Manfred spoke quietly.
‘Your trick with the dirt; Magister Kohl’s reaction isn’t unusual. As unpalatable as it is during a fencing match, I’m under no illusion that in the heat of battle such rules don’t exist. This morning was not the heat of battle. Know this, Drew – there’s a time and a place for underhandedness. Let that be an end to it.’
That was as far as the punishment went with the Lord of Stormdale; carefully chosen words to remind Drew who he was. He took a moment to reflect. Manfred could have reprimanded him in front of Kohl, but instead picked a moment when they were alone: a measure of his manners and good grace. Drew wasn’t the farm boy from the Cold Coast any more, picking fights and scuffling at Tuckborough market. He and Trent had learned to fight dirty there, the two brothers pitched against gangs of local boys. Drew often found himself thinking about Trent, the boy who’d grown up as his twin, wondering what had become of him; he hoped he was safe. Drew had to remember to act differently now. He was constantly being watched and judged.
‘I feel such pressure,’ sighed Drew, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘From the council, my friends – even the people of Highcliff.’ They were out there, beyond the gates. Expectations were still high, a month after the uprising. They knew he was here, behind the walls of Buck House. Each day a crowd gathered; many wanted to meet the future king, while most just wanted a glimpse of him.
‘Don’t be downhearted, Drew. You’ve made fantastic progress. I can’t imagine what you’ve had to deal with since you discovered your heritage and powers. You’re unpredictable, though, so much of what you know is either self-taught or fashioned by how the Ferrans raised you. You’ll always keep us on our toes, I suspect. A positive thing, I might add!’
Their conversation was interrupted when a guard appeared at the edge of the courtyard.
‘Your Grace, Lord Hector is here and seeks word with you urgently.’
Drew instantly brightened at the news.
‘You’d better not keep him waiting, then,’ said Manfred.
It was comforting for Drew to know that one he trusted so implicitly was at his shoulder. The shy Boarlord had taken a shine to Queen Amelie’s lady-in-waiting, Bethwyn, but had yet to pluck up the courage to say a single word to her. Drew suspected half of Hector’s visits revolved around the magister wanting to bump into the poor girl. Clearly this one did not.
As Manfred strode away Drew stepped out of the shade and walked towards the edge of the courtyard. The estate was built upon the hillside, meaning the house and gardens sat on terraces. The westernmost edge of the courtyard jutted out from the hillside. Servants’ quarters were built below it and a low stone parapet marked its length. From this vantage point Drew could see the harbour and the various ships that made up the merchant and military fleet of Westland. Making out the black masts of the Maelstrom, he wondered if Count Vega was on board. Drew was fond of the Pirate Prince, the Sharklord having gone from being a two-faced traitor to a member of the Wolf’s Council. Once Drew’s captor, he was now his saviour, having rescued the boy from a watery grave when he’d fallen unconscious into the harbour.
He felt hands clasp round his face suddenly from behind, covering his eyes. He was about to struggle free when a familiar voice sounded in his ear.
‘My king?’ she whispered. The tension he’d felt at the possible ambush gave way to a new and familiar feeling of anxiety.
‘Don’t call me that,’ he grinned awkwardly. ‘I’m far from ready to claim that title.’
Gretchen removed her hands, giving him a playful shove in his back.
‘It won’t be long now, Drew, you’d better get used to it,’ she teased.
A mischievous smile darted across her face, red hair tumbling around her perfect features. She wore a pale cream dress, embroidered with tiny crimson flowers round the sleeves and throat. Drew could feel his mouth drying and his stomach knotting. He could talk to most people readily. But not Gretchen, at least not lately. Gretchen, who he’d got to know so well on their travels from Redmire and their adventures through the Wyrmwood. Gretchen, in whose presence he should have been relaxed.
Behind, Gretchen’s ladies-in-waiting stood in a huddle, giggling. Drew wondered what she saw in the girls; they seemed juvenile to him, children who swooned and twittered at the slightest drama.
‘There’s no hurry,’ Drew finally replied, resting his eyes on the city again. ‘Bergan can remain Lord Protector for as long as he likes. The people are happy with the Wolf’s Council, they don’t need some farm boy from the Cold Coast messing things up.’
‘You’re doing yourself a great disservice, Drew. The people of Westland love you; they want you to lead them.’
The idea that the Werefox knew what the people of Lyssia wanted made Drew smile. She was a great many things – feisty, strong-willed and short-tempered – but voice of the people? He shook his head.
‘How can you say that, Gretchen? What do you honestly know of what the people want?’
‘You think I’m the same spoiled girl you met in Redmire? People change, Drew. Just take a look at yourself.’
‘I’m still just a simple country boy.’
Gretchen laughed.
‘There is nothing simple about you, Drew. You’re only fooling yourself. I was there, remember, on the Maelstrom, heard the crowd chanting your name. You’re the future, Drew. You’re their king.’
He couldn’t get away from it, try as he might. Everywhere he turned, his destiny awaited him. All roads led to the throne. His secret plans to disappear from Highcliff were fading with each passing day. He still harboured hopes of returning to the Cold Coast, but who was he fooling? That chance had gone.
Gretchen linked her arm through Drew’s, grasping his left hand between both of hers. He felt a shiver, his nerves jangling. Where was Kohl’s jug of water when he needed it?
‘The Lord Protector is a temporary title, Drew, until you’re ready to take your place on the throne,’ she said, breathing the sea air in as she followed his gaze. ‘He’s popular with the peasants, but they expect the Wolf to rule by w
inter, mark my words.’
Drew prickled.
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Say what?’
‘Peasants.’
‘That’s what they are, isn’t it?’
‘They’re people, Gretchen. I was one of your peasants not so long ago, remember?’
If Drew had hoped for an apology from the Werefox, he didn’t get one. Instead she laughed. Her voice was harder when she next spoke.
‘Oh don’t be so sensitive, Drew of the Dyrewood. You were never really a peasant, you’re the son of the old king for Brenn’s sake. Everyone has their purpose, Drew. Everyone should know their place.’
‘We have different visions, Gretchen. Under Leopold the people were oppressed. There was no way for the lowest classes to improve their lives, no routes out of their social station.’
‘That’s revolutionary talk, Drew.’
‘I disagree,’ he said, turning to her. His nerves had calmed, replaced by a feeling of indignation. ‘It would mean a happier and more prosperous society; do you not want the best for the people of Lyssia?’
Gretchen glowered, any laughter in her voice gone.
‘Is this the new Drew, then? I suppose you know everything there is to know now? Setting the world to rights after a few weeks as a Werelord? I think I preferred the old Drew, the naive farm boy from the seashore.’
The principles of right and wrong had been planted in his head from an early age by Mack Ferran, the man who had raised him as his own. Drew shook his head, knowing full well he wouldn’t get through to Gretchen. If he carried on she’d only patronize him and get more annoyed. Thankfully, the arrival of Hector from across the courtyard allowed them to change the subject.
‘Hector,’ Drew called, running over to slap him on the back. Gretchen followed, speeding over for the reunion of the three friends.
‘What brings you out of Traitors’ House, councillor?’ asked Gretchen, changing the target of her teasing words, the playfulness returned. ‘It’s so good of you to grace us with your presence.’
Rage of Lions Page 3
