Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  Indeed, Hector looked every inch the Werelord. He wore a smart brown cloak over his well-tailored city clothes, a brass clasp in the form of a charging boar fastening it round his shoulder. Against his chest Drew recognized the steel grey medallion that every member of his council wore, bearing the profile of a wolf’s head.

  The Wereboar laughed, blushing at the same time.

  ‘Well, it’s good to get out of there and see what the rest of the world is up to. It’s hard work this governing. We’re left with the task of keeping people happy while some fool who is supposed to be king puts his feet up.’ He looked Drew up and down. ‘Aren’t you going to put some clothes on in the presence of a Wolf’s Councillor? There’s a lady present, you know!’

  Drew was suddenly aware of how exposed he was. Wearing leather breeches and little else he was woefully underdressed when one considered that he was with two important nobles, regardless of the fact they were his best friends.

  ‘Relax, Hector,’ sniffed Gretchen. ‘It’s nothing we haven’t seen before.’

  She pulled a face when she looked at Drew’s back, tracing a finger over a series of scars. He shivered at her touch.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your wounds – I thought they’d all healed.’

  Drew had endured all manner of injury when he had arrived in Highcliff the previous month. Beaten by King Leopold and his men, fighting the Lionguard, duelling the Wererat Vanmorten and falling from the castle ramparts into the sea. Every inch of his body had been battered or broken, but his therianthropic healing, unique to Werelords, had allowed him to mend at an accelerated rate. The only scars that still ached were those on his back.

  ‘I’m stuck with those ones, it appears.’

  Hector took a look also, and nodded.

  ‘The whip? It was studded with silver, wasn’t it?’

  Drew blanched, thinking about the sting of the deadly metal against his skin. He’d taken beatings and broken limbs, had even recovered from his father Mack Ferran wrongly running him through with the Wolfshead Blade, but nothing burned the flesh of a Werelord like the touch of silver. It had been outlawed for many years throughout Lyssia, but King Leopold had seen no problem in arming his men with the forbidden metal. The swords of the Lionguard were laced with the precious poison.

  ‘It’s no way to treat their king,’ said Gretchen.

  ‘Future king,’ corrected Hector.

  ‘If we ever see the day,’ chimed Gretchen.

  ‘You know,’ Drew said, smiling. ‘Impertinent as you both are, I’m blessed to have two such noble friends.’

  His words were heartfelt and the Fox and Boar looked at him with fresh eyes.

  ‘What a lovely thing to say,’ said Hector.

  ‘He wants something,’ whispered Gretchen, giving Hector a sly elbow in the ribs.

  ‘I mean it,’ went on Drew. He paused for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘I know I don’t say it very often, but meeting the two of you brought me back from the brink. I was in a dark place when I lived in the Dyrewood and when I was first captured by Bergan. It looked for a while like I had no future. I found one when I found you.’

  He could feel a tear in his eye and, before it could fall and betray him he grabbed the two of them quickly for a sweaty hug. They returned it, heartily.

  ‘Are you just using us to dry yourself on?’ asked Gretchen, puncturing the moment. Hector and Drew laughed.

  ‘How is the Queen Mother?’ asked Hector.

  It had been a curious month for Drew as he’d got to know Queen Amelie, his birth mother. Her moods swung from celebration at having Drew in her life, to sorrow at the loss of her other son, Lucas. She’d spent fifteen years mourning the death of Wergar and all her children in a fire. She’d discovered that her youngest child, Willem, had survived, but she also had to come to terms with the fact that the man she took as her next husband, Leopold, was behind their deaths. Willem was the name Drew had been born to, but it felt alien to him when she said it. Which name would he be expected to use when he took the throne?

  ‘She rests,’ said Drew. ‘I expect we’ll see her this afternoon. Mornings aren’t good for her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You must have heard him,’ said Gretchen, shivering.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hector with sudden realization.

  Each evening since the joint armies of Brackenholme and Stormdale had taken the city, Leopold had appeared upon the battlements of Highcliff Keep, roaring his fury into the sky; the rage of the Lion, Bergan called it. The sound was blood-curdling, this nightly ritual reminding everyone for miles around who still held the crown of Westland. Those soldiers in the encampments that circled the ancient castle had witnessed the screaming rants and curses that accompanied these roars. Leopold roared for vengeance against those who had stolen his throne. Bergan and Manfred had to calm their troops’ nerves and boost morale every night. After each roaring bout, Amelie inevitably had a fitful night’s sleep. Mornings were when she could finally rest.

  ‘Thank you, Hector,’ smiled Drew. ‘I’ll let her know you asked after her.’

  Duke Manfred and Magister Kohl appeared once more, stepping up to the trio and breaking up the reunion.

  ‘Are you refreshed?’ asked Drew. ‘I’m ready for the next round, Your Grace. This time I’ll keep it clean, you have my word.’

  Manfred shook his head.

  ‘As it happens, Drew, our classes will have to be curtailed. You can remain here and catch up with Hector. Kohl and I are to escort Lady Gretchen to Traitors’ House. Apparently there is some news regarding Hedgemoor that needs relaying to her, and Duke Bergan requests her presence at the earliest opportunity. My lady?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Gretchen with surprise. ‘A moment, while I get my cloak.’ She went over to her ladies-in-waiting, one of whom carried her long red hooded cloak. As they fastened it around her shoulders, the four men spoke quietly.

  ‘This was the message you brought here from Bergan?’ Drew asked Hector.

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘There’s some concern about Gretchen’s safety in the city.’

  ‘A simple precaution, Hector, no?’ whispered Manfred.

  The Boarlord nodded.

  ‘Indeed. We think the safest place for her is back in Hedgemoor.’

  ‘Has this got something to do with the agents of Leopold still loose in the city?’ asked Drew, eyeing Gretchen as she finished readying herself for the brief walk to Traitors’ House.

  ‘That’s the bones of it,’ said Kohl. ‘Duke Manfred and I shall take her. Hector, I appreciate that you don’t want to be implicated in this – we all know how fiery the lady can be. Let us old fools face her wrath on your behalf,’ he said, winking. Hector breathed a sigh of relief, nodding enthusiastically as Gretchen rejoined them.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she smiled and, taking the Staglord’s arm, turned to leave.

  ‘Until later,’ Drew called before bending down to pick up the blunt steels from the floor. He handed one to Hector.

  ‘Now then, Hector,’ he said as the Boarlord handled the length of steel. ‘On my word, come at me.’

  Drew struck a heroic pose, ready for combat. Hector laughed.

  As the gates to Buck House opened, the guards pushed the onlookers back. Gretchen counted at least thirty there, all waiting to catch sight of the Wolf. Ordinarily the appearance of Gretchen might have driven a crowd into wild excitement, and she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of the love these people had for Drew. She’d lived her whole life in the public eye, yet they clamoured for the youth who was new to this life of royalty. Leopold never knew this kind of adulation. A great deal of goodwill was Drew’s for the taking.

  Manfred and Kohl held people back as they led Gretchen through the throng. Within moments they were walking up the cobbled Lofty Lane, a quiet back street that would take them directly to Traitors’ House. She was intrigued to hear what news awaited her from Hedgemoor. It had been too long since she’d been
home and she missed it. But her place was now here, in Highcliff. Gretchen had been groomed to take her place in the king’s court as queen. Though she’d once had her heart set on Lucas, Drew had won her affections in the short time she’d known him, not that she’d admit such a thing to him.

  Buildings reached across the street from either side, threatening to touch one another in places. Washing lines hung over the road, creating a fluttering canvas of sheets and garments. It was quiet, peaceful.

  ‘Do you know what the news is from Hedgemoor?’ she asked Manfred, who kept pace at her side.

  The duke shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid not my dear. I’m sure your Uncle Bergan will be fully informed. He asks that we don’t tarry.’

  The Bearlord was indeed considered an uncle by Gretchen. Her distant cousin, Lady Rainier, had married into the Bear clan many years ago, and was mother to both Whitley and Broghan. Such marriages between Werelords were not unusual, with the male usually dictating which therianthrope would rise from the union. She was fully aware she was the last in the line of the Werefoxes of Hedgemoor, although some Foxes lived in the eastern Dalelands.

  A noise ahead made them look up as a handcart rolled out of an alleyway. The old man who pulled it was bent double, stooped, a dirty hooded cloak fastened about his shoulders. They stopped as he tried to manoeuvre it into the street, but he was having trouble steering it out of the alley. Manfred, ever helpful, stepped forward to aid him.

  ‘Let me assist you,’ he said, taking hold of one of the guide poles as the old man stepped back. Gretchen could make out the black ringlets of oily hair that hung down from within his hood. There was something familiar about that hair.

  A noise behind her made her turn, but too late. Another man, dressed in similar garb stepped out of a shadowed doorway immediately behind Kohl. The magister didn’t have a moment to react, his advanced years having slowed his reflexes. Swiftly and smoothly the man whipped out a short but sharp blade, drawing it across Kohl’s throat and slicing it in a fluid motion. Kohl tumbled to the cobbles, his lifeblood gushing from his open neck.

  Gretchen screamed.

  Duke Manfred turned, his hand immediately reaching for the longsword at his hip. The sword was only half out of its scabbard when he froze, a look of agony flashing over his face. His mouth contorted into a deathly grimace, a cry failing to escape his lips. Like a ragdoll he slowly slumped forward to his knees in the street, the old man behind standing over him. In his hand the beggar held a wicked serrated blade, stained dark with the Staglord’s blood. His hood fell back. She’d been right to recognize the ringlets. The Ratlord Vankaskan grinned at her with demonic delight.

  Her scream was cut short when the man who had murdered Kohl threw a gloved hand over her mouth. His hot breath whispered in her ear as he dragged her into the alleyway, the Ratlord close to heel.

  ‘I have missed you, my bride,’ snarled Prince Lucas.

  3

  Dwellers in the Dark

  Drew sprinted up the lane, feet pounding the cobblestones. He was in no doubt that had been Gretchen’s scream. Behind him came Hector and three guards from Buck House, closely followed by the crowd from the gate. He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere without an escort, but with his bodyguards a hundred yards back down the street, he had little choice. He could hear the cries of Hector, following as fast as he could.

  ‘Drew! Be careful! This might be a trap!’

  He was right, of course. It could well be a trap to lure him out into the open, but Drew couldn’t care less. He wasn’t about to let Gretchen get used as bait. Drew could feel the blood coursing through his body, his fingertips on fire as dark claws began to emerge. If they wanted the Wolf they’d get the Wolf.

  Ahead a crowd had gathered about an abandoned handcart in the middle of Lofty Lane. The onlookers stared in horror at the bodies in the street, obscuring their identities from Drew. As he closed in he felt his legs turning leaden, and fought back the desire to vomit. Blood streamed through the cobbles like red rivers between black mountains. Please, Brenn, don’t let it be her.

  Barging the people aside he looked from one body to another: Duke Manfred and dear Magister Kohl. Manfred was slumped on the ground, face down, a great savage wound in his back. Whoever had slain Kohl had almost removed the old man’s head from his neck, so deep was the cut.

  There was no sign of Gretchen.

  ‘You,’ said Drew, grabbing the nearest man, an innkeeper judging by the ale-stained apron that was stretched tight over his portly stomach. ‘What happened here?’

  The man’s face was ashen, and for a moment he struggled to respond. Drew shook him stiffly and his jowls wobbled.

  ‘I was one of the first ones here. Found ’em like this. Poor souls.’

  ‘Was there a woman here? A girl with red hair?’

  Drew looked at them all desperately, but they each shook their heads. He crouched, reaching under the body of Manfred and withdrawing the Staglord’s longsword from its sheath. Hector, the guards and the larger crowd gathered about them now as Drew rose to his full height once more. The mob was shouting now, some screaming as they saw the bodies. The guards recoiled, their liege lying dead before them. Hector blanched, his hand instinctively moving over his mouth.

  ‘Did anyone see what happened?’ shouted Drew over the noise.

  An old woman stepped warily forward out of the crowd.

  ‘Two men,’ she gasped, eyes darting about the crowd. ‘They done this. Killed them dead in daylight as I live and breathe.’ She made a hasty sign of Brenn, kissing her thumb and touching her forehead.

  ‘Did you see the girl?’ asked Drew, shifting the sword in his sweating grasp.

  ‘That way,’ she said, pointing to a shady alleyway opposite. ‘Took her down there they did!’

  Drew nodded his thanks, then turned and began to push through the crowd towards the gap between the buildings. It was only the width of the handcart, and seemed to snake off into darkness. He felt a hand snatch at his elbow, holding him fast.

  ‘Drew, please,’ begged Hector. ‘Wait a moment until the City Watch get here!’ The guards from Buck House were trying to keep the crowd away from the murder scene.

  ‘I can’t, Hector! We’re wasting time!’

  He unpeeled Hector’s fingers and set off into the alley. Hector briefly paused before following, leaving the guards to fight the panic and the crowd.

  The passage was cramped and uncomfortable, buildings looming overhead and blocking out the sun. Occasionally the odd shaft of daylight broke the gloom, but for the most part it was like twilight. Drew looked around as he ran, searching for where the killers had taken Gretchen. Were they regular footpads, opportunist thieves? It was well known that Lofty Lane was a street that quickly went from riches to rags in the space of a hundred yards. No street was entirely safe in Highcliff, but to attack someone in broad daylight was relatively unheard of.

  The alley was coming to a dead end. Drew crashed into a wall, his hands feverishly feeling about in the half-light. Had they climbed out of here? His hands slid over the mossy bricks, finding no purchase. No, not climbed; where have they gone?

  ‘Perhaps the old woman was mistaken?’ gasped Hector behind, slightly out of breath. ‘She’d just witnessed two murders; who can say if she was thinking straight?’

  Drew jostled Hector out of the way as he turned back.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Hector. ‘Let’s head back and get more men. Spread out. We’ll find them.’ Hector started to follow Drew and almost fell over him.

  Drew had dropped to his knees, longsword on the floor as he looked around. He tried to steady his heart rate, blanking out all sounds: Hector’s chattering, the shouts of the crowd at the entrance to the alleyway, doors slamming, dogs barking. He tapped into the Wolf, thinking about Gretchen; her voice, her movement, her smells. Red roses. Rose petals. Perfume. Her scent was strong, stirring emotions deep within. He turned his head, picking up a trace. He breathed in long and slo
w, catching hold of it. Then followed it.

  Hector watched in wonder as Drew scrambled along the filthy floor, half naked and in a world of his own. The Boarlord looked back up the alley expectantly, hoping that a guard might appear to relieve them. Drew rose to his feet, reaching out and gripping a splintered crate with his free hand. A filthy cloth, stained with something vile and covered in flies, was draped across it. Hector grimaced. Giving it a yank, Drew pulled it to one side.

  A jagged hole in the ground revealed itself, broken earth marking it as an old sewer entrance.

  ‘This way,’ said Drew, smiling, his expression slightly manic as he stepped into the hole.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait?’ asked the wide-eyed Hector.

  Drew didn’t bother answering, lowering himself quickly into the hole. His feet found rusted ladder rungs as he clambered down. Gretchen’s scent was quickly overwhelmed by the stench of the sewer. Overhead he saw Hector climbing in, feet slipping as he followed. Twenty steps down and the vertical shaft opened up into a large chamber. He dropped the remaining distance, landing with a thump on muddy earth.

  He was in a main sewer that no doubt ran all the way down from the Tall Quarter of the city. Curving brickwork held up the rock above, beams of rotten timber and twisted lengths of metal adding strength and support to the tunnel’s structure. A river of feculence gurgled past, and a walkway clung to the wall along its length. The darkness was broken in places by pale daylight that arced down from grille openings in the streets above. This might have provided the only illumination, but for the faint glow of a fire round the bend. Drew moved quickly as he navigated his way along the ledge towards the concealed flames.

  The tunnel curved ahead of him, the brickwork catching more and more light from the fire beyond. Drew heard something splash in the foul water. He squinted, watching the rippling brown surface as he edged along. A rat, almost a foot long, scurried ahead of his feet, away from the intruder. Another splash nearby: something landing in the water or moving through it perhaps?

  ‘Drew!’ called Hector.