Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Let’s not talk of armies, Mikkel,’ barked Bergan. ‘The last thing we want is war. Your brother lives; hold on to that thought. We’re close to chasing the Lion and his cronies from Lyssia for good. So Vankaskan has been bold and played his hand – he’s only one therian. The other four Wererats are holed up with Leopold, remember?’

  Bergan pointed out of the window in the direction of Highcliff Keep while Broghan nodded gravely.

  ‘We’ll find them. There’ll be nowhere to hide.’

  ‘I pray so,’ said Mikkel. ‘Know this: the Rat’s mine!’

  ‘Send word to Stormdale,’ suggested Bergan calmly, gesturing at Mikkel’s chair with an open hand. ‘Tell them this terrible business. But please – keep your army there for now. If you marched your soldiers across Westland there might be panic across the Seven Realms. No, stay here, keep your voice in the Wolf’s Council. If you leave it weakens us.’

  Mikkel sat down, weaving his fingers together and resting them beneath his chin. Drew felt enormous sympathy for him. Thus far he had remained silent

  ‘My Lord Mikkel,’ said Drew. Everyone turned to face him. ‘You act with great dignity. A weaker man might let his anger beat him, which is what Vankaskan wants. I’m grateful you remain here by our side.’

  ‘You speak wise words, Drew,’ said Mikkel quietly, nodding his head in a brief but sincere bow.

  ‘If I do, I have your brother to thank for teaching me them.’

  Manfred’s life hung in the balance; if he died what effect might that have on the furious Mikkel? There were too many unanswered questions about the Wererat and his plans, specifically where he was taking Gretchen and how many were in his company. There was, of course, another way to get answers, but it wouldn’t have been approved by the Wolf’s Council.

  Drew wished there were more members of the council. Those therians who’d fought in the Battle of Highcliff had all taken their places in the court of Traitors’ House. But two of the lesser Werelords who had fought on that day had returned to their homelands – Count Fripp, the Badger of Bray, and Baron Mervin, the Wildcat of Robben. Their presence now might have given their fellows more comfort in numbers, but instead their spirits were fragile. Even the normally flamboyant Vega was in reserved mood. A showman, a pirate, a ladies’ man, a cold-blooded killer: he and Manfred might have quarrelled, but ultimately the sea marshal respected the old Stag more than Manfred had ever known.

  Bergan looked tired. The Bearlord was a leader of men, not a bureaucrat, and Drew could see that he felt under pressure. The abduction of Gretchen had resulted in mobs gathering outside Traitors’ House, clamouring for news.

  The atmosphere lifted slightly when a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Captain Harker, freshly returned from his tour of duty. The soldier bowed to the assembled Werelords before striding up to embrace Bergan.

  ‘My lord,’ he said.

  Harker looked battle weary and grizzled, having grown a beard since Drew had last seen the soldier a month ago. A soiled bandage was looped round his head through his dark hair.

  ‘Earl Mikkel,’ said Harker. ‘I’ve spoken with the Watch. You’ve my deepest sympathies at your loss, and I pray for Duke Manfred’s swift recovery.’

  The Staglord nodded gratefully to Harker. The captain spied Drew suddenly.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, bowing low.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Bergan.

  ‘You can still call me Drew, captain. Anything else makes me feel like a pretender.’

  ‘Very well … Drew,’ he said. ‘Have you been injured?’

  Drew checked himself, having forgotten about his wounds; he was wrapped in bandages of his own. The injuries were already healing, but the poultices and drugs that Hector had applied were a precaution against any diseases he might have picked up in the sewers. He wondered how the Boarlord was getting on with his secret task.

  ‘Something like that,’ answered Drew. ‘You seem to have been in a scrape yourself!’

  ‘This?’ said Harker, tapping the bandage across his brow. ‘Business in the Badlands. Trouble in Vermire has been quelled, but as my company returned down Grimm’s Lane we ran into some of Muller’s Skirmishers.’

  Sheriff Muller, self proclaimed Lord of the Badlands, was not a therianthrope. He was a mortal man, an ex-member of Wergar’s Wolfguard. When the Wolf’s army was disbanded he had turned to banditry to make a living. Chased out of Westland, he had unified the various bands of brigands. Now this small army was getting bolder, striking the smaller, less well protected settlements on Westland’s border.

  Harker continued.

  ‘We ended up chasing them, which delayed our return. Apologies, my lord.’

  Bergan waved the apology away.

  ‘Any man who catches Muller, dead or alive, gets one hundred gold crowns. They treat him like some kind of saviour. I remember him well: a tough soldier, but a loose blade, unpredictable. He’ll be calling himself a king before long!’

  ‘Might Vankaskan have asked Muller for help?’ said Drew. The others looked at one another, not having considered this.

  ‘It’s possible,’ muttered Broghan. ‘The Badlands do neighbour Vermire.’

  Bergan nodded.

  ‘Don’t get too comfortable, captain. Your company may be turning round rather quicker than expected, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Command me, my lord, and I’m there,’ said Harker, his jaw set and eyes keen.

  ‘Most importantly,’ said Bergan, patting Harker’s shoulder. ‘My daughter; has she returned?’

  ‘She has, and she’s well. We’d have been lost without her.’

  ‘Really?’ said Bergan with a mixture of surprise and pride.

  ‘Our main scout, Cooper, stumbled on a nest of adders out of Vermire. Got bitten bad. He’ll live, but we were without a scout. Lady Whitley stepped up; we’d never have hunted down Muller’s Skirmishers if she hadn’t been along. Led us straight to their camp, concealed as it was. As good as any scout I’ve worked with.’

  Bergan growled in the direction of his son.

  ‘I thought she wouldn’t be in danger?’

  ‘She’s back safely, isn’t she?’ said Broghan. The young Werelord received a dark stare from the old Bear as Bergan turned back to Harker.

  ‘Thank you for returning my daughter safely, captain.’

  Drew walked up to Harker.

  ‘When you’re ready to head back out I’d be honoured if you’d let me travel with you.’

  Before Harker could reply, the Lord of Brackenholme spoke up.

  ‘That won’t be happening.’

  Drew turned to look at Bergan.

  ‘Pardon? You’re not in command of me, Duke Bergan.’

  ‘As Lord Protector I’m charged with looking after the safety of the Seven Realms of Lyssia. This includes making sure the heir to the throne of Westland remains as far removed from danger as is possible. I can’t let you go.’

  ‘Can’t let me go? You’re not my father. If I choose to go I shall.’

  ‘Then you’ll find me blocking your path.’

  ‘And me,’ said Mikkel. ‘You have lessons to complete.’

  ‘Lessons to complete?’ Drew could feel his own anger rising now. ‘With respect, Mikkel, my teacher is currently under the watchful eyes of our magisters as he clings to life. He’s hardly in any state to chase me with blunt steels.’

  ‘Then I’ll take the lessons myself,’ bellowed Mikkel, no longer keeping his anger in check. ‘You’re just a boy! There’s no way we’ll let you risk the future of Lyssia on some foolish adventure.’

  ‘This is not an adventure,’ snarled Drew. ‘It’s a friend going after a friend. And I’m not a child any more. You can’t hail me as the man who dethroned a tyrant in one breath and then swaddle me like a baby in the next!’

  ‘Let us use our other resources to find Gretchen,’ said Broghan. ‘Surely you can see that it’s folly for you to endanger yourself?’

  Drew’s blood was up. He’d b
een told what to do and where to go by the senior Werelords for a month now. He looked to Vega for support, who suddenly found the pommel of his cutlass very interesting.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’ he asked the sea marshal. ‘You’ve an opinion on most matters.’

  The count looked up, his smile dazzling as ever.

  ‘I actually agree with Drew,’ he said, to everyone’s surprise. ‘Let him go and find her. He’s been blessed by Sosha thus far, why should it stop now?’

  Bergan clapped his hands sarcastically.

  ‘Terrific. There’s the voice of reason: dependable as ever, my dear count.’

  Vega shrugged.

  ‘I say what I see. Drew has come through everything that’s happened to him thus far, from the Dyrewood, the serpent and my own regretted treachery. The lad can fall into a net of fish heads and come up smelling of Spyr Oil.’

  Drew nodded his thanks.

  ‘This isn’t up for discussion,’ said the Bear, thumping the tabletop with his fist and making them all jump. ‘I made a promise to you and the people, Drew, that I shall keep you safe from harm. You stay and that’s an end to it.’

  Drew snatched his cloak up, fastening the clasp hastily round his throat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Bergan, eyes narrow and suspicious.

  ‘I desire the company of friends,’ said Drew, pointedly. ‘Don’t worry yourself, Duke Bergan. I’m not planning on jumping the walls. There’s a Boarlord and Lady of Brackenholme who might calm my spirits. I feel … on edge.’

  He bowed to them.

  ‘Drew,’ said Bergan quietly. ‘You must understand. I do this for everyone, not least your mother, Queen Amelie. She’s only just found you again after all these years. Don’t let her mourn you for a second time.’

  Drew winced; he hadn’t expected such arguments from Bergan. He turned and walked out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him.

  He was halfway down the stairs when he found Whitley coming up the other way.

  ‘Drew!’ she cried, her face lighting up. His step quickened at the sight of her, and his dark mood instantly subsided. Arms open, he danced down the remaining step, embracing her.

  ‘Oh, it’s good to see you, Whitley,’ he said, holding her at arm’s length to appraise her. Was she taller since he’d last seen her a month ago? She looked grown up, wearing a studded leather jerkin and long knee-length boots. Bracers were laced over each forearm and she wore a huntsman’s dagger on her hip. Her brown hair was tied back in a thick braid over her shoulders, out of the way of her face. She was filthy from weeks on the road, but her smile was as warm and bright as ever.

  ‘And you, Drew. I was on my way to see my father – I believe Captain Harker came ahead of me. There seems a lot of activity at the gates with the Watch. What’s going on? What have I missed?’

  Drew looked back up the stairs the way he’d come, chewing his lip. Hector might have made some progress by now. Could he confide in Whitley? As guards walked past them up the stairs and staff came down the other way, Drew leaned in close to Whitley.

  ‘Walk with me,’ he whispered. ‘There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.’

  5

  Autopsy

  Their booted feet splashed through puddles as they advanced down the corridor. The whole cell block had been abandoned since the Wolf’s Council had taken control. Under Leopold it had teemed with prisoners. Three floors underground without a hint of natural light, the Pits, as they were known, had been emptied by Bergan immediately. Prisoners who had been jailed for over a decade had been brought to the surface, driven mad by their pitch-black confinement. The Wolf’s Council had voted quickly to close and collapse this whole floor, reducing it to rubble to ensure it could never hold humans again, regardless of their crimes. Only the pressing matter of prising Leopold out of the keep had stopped them from getting on with the task.

  Drew lifted his torch and looked back as they neared the corridor’s end. Its fluttering flame illuminated the barred chambers as they passed. Recognizable shapes, draped in white sheets, lay on benches in the abandoned cells. The cold atmosphere kept the chambers refrigerated, reminding Drew of the butcher in Tuckborough who’d had a room where he kept his meats to stop them from spoiling. Mack Ferran would regularly sell animals to the man, and the cold room had always put Drew on edge.

  Nobody had followed: the staff were quite relaxed within Traitors’ House. The huge doors at the entrance to the old prison were well guarded, but once inside the tower it was relatively easy to move about freely. Since the Pits were currently being used as a makeshift mortuary by the military, there was very little need for people to head below. Unless, of course, they were transporting the dead.

  ‘Is this it? No guard?’ asked Whitley as they halted at the end of the corridor. Three stone steps led up to a squat wooden door. A faded sign was nailed to it, indicating it had once been a guardroom.

  ‘What is there to guard?’ said Drew.

  Whitley shrugged and reached for the handle, but Drew moved quickly, snatching her hand and holding her back.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Beyond the door,’ said Drew. ‘What you might see. I don’t want you to panic.’

  ‘What will I see? It’s just Hector meditating, no?’

  ‘It’s more … animated than that.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the girl, suddenly hesitant, pulling her hand away.

  ‘I suppose you have to see for yourself.’ He grabbed the iron ring handle, turning it and pushing. The door creaked open and Drew entered, beckoning Whitley to follow. Her steps were small and wary.

  Compared to the cells they’d passed, this room was more austere. Two torches spluttered on either side of the doorway, and Drew immediately holstered his into a spare bracket. A bunkbed stood against each of the three walls, and a writing desk with a rotten old ledger gathering dust and a mangy quill drooping from a dry inkpot were by the door. In the centre of the room was a heavy table, no doubt used by the guards in every aspect of their lives for eating, drinking and gambling. Drew was more concerned about what currently lay upon it.

  A white sheet was draped over the corpse, stained brown in many places where blood had soaked through. Hector had his back to them, sitting cross-legged on the floor, but Drew could see the circle of yellow brimstone he’d carefully traced around the table. Communing with the dead was outlawed throughout Lyssia, although it was still practised in more remote societies. The Guild of Magisters, keepers of arcane knowledge, had banned it long ago. A handful of Dark Magisters, twisted and perverted by the power magick held over them, had killed in order to simply question and command a corpse. It couldn’t be tolerated. But in this instance, as Hector had informed Drew, it seemed entirely necessary.

  Hector was incanting, chanting the same words Drew had heard once before, one awful night in the Wyrmwood. While searching for the kidnapped Gretchen, Drew and Hector had encountered a tribe of Wyldermen, savages who worshipped the great Wereserpent Vala. The Wylderman Shaman had been slain, but their encounter didn’t end there. Hector had raised the man from the dead, questioning the corpse to find where their friend had been taken. Drew felt goosebumps race across his flesh. In Hector’s right hand Drew could see a long black candle, its flame shifting with their entrance, while his left palm held a pool of melted wax.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ whispered Whitley, nervously. Drew felt her hand close round his, and he held hers tightly.

  ‘Communing.’

  ‘But that’s a crime! Isn’t it dangerous?’

  Drew didn’t want to tell her what he’d witnessed when Hector had raised the Wylderman Shaman.

  ‘Don’t worry, Whitley; he knows what he’s doing.’ He put a reassuring arm round her and positioned himself slightly ahead of her, just in case anything went awry like last time.

  Hector’s chanting stopped suddenly and he curled the wax-covered hand into a tight fist. The hot wax poured down his forearm, his
sleeve falling back to the elbow. He brought his fist down once. Twice. Three times.

  ‘Look!’ gasped Whitley, her trembling finger pointing to the table.

  The sheet shifted slightly, as if a breeze had fluttered by. Only Drew knew there were no breezes down in the Pits. This was a crypt, for all intents and purposes, as good as airtight.

  Hector’s voice was quiet and confident.

  ‘Rise, creature, and answer to your master’s bidding.’

  Captain Brutus’s corpse suddenly sat upright on the table, like a puppet on strings still covered by the shroud. Drew and Whitley instinctively stepped back, but Hector remained on the floor, legs folded and fist still planted firmly on the ground. He was showing tremendous restraint considering this was the corpse of the man who had slain his father. The cockiness that Hector had shown with the dead shaman had gone, replaced by a cautiousness that Drew welcomed.

  ‘Where am I?’ gurgled the corpse. The torchlight lit the sheet up, the body’s silhouette visible through the material. Drew was grateful the sheet remained on the corpse for Whitley’s sake. The rats had done a good job of stripping the captain’s flesh and burrowing into the body’s chest.

  Although the torso remained relatively motionless, there was a rising panic in the corpse’s voice as its head twitched this way and that as if scanning the room.

  ‘The dark. They’re in the dark,’ it rasped. ‘All around me. Claws and teeth.’

  ‘They’re gone now,’ said Hector to the corpse of his father’s killer. ‘They’re dead. The rats are all gone.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ whined the dead captain fearfully. ‘They’re all around me.’

  ‘They’re gone. They can’t hurt you now. You’re … dead.’

  Drew felt Whitley’s hand tighten about his, almost cracking his knuckles.

  ‘Dead?’ murmured the corpse, apparently only semi-aware of its fate. ‘Then why do I feel their teeth and claws? Why can I hear them screaming?’