Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  The black mark had started small, insignificant at first, but it had irritated him. He’d thought it was just a burn initially, brought on from his communing in the Wyrmwood. The black wax had seared the flesh, but the wound hadn’t healed. On board the Maelstrom, he’d communed again, that time with his father. The mark had grown – only slightly, but larger nonetheless. He’d tried not to rub it, but it was always there, an itch that needed scratching. Out of habit he would rub it with the thumb of his right hand, unaware he was doing it.

  Since he’d communed with the corpse yesterday the mark was considerably bigger, roughly the size of a gold crown. The flesh around it looked sore from the wax, but the blackened skin was easier to examine now. It wasn’t burned at all. He could see every detail of the skin’s surface. And it didn’t hurt. He thought it would feel hot and tender, but it felt cool to the touch. Cool and numb. He traced his thumb over it in a slow circle, following its edge around his palm.

  ‘Don’t let them get to you.’

  Hector looked around, snapping his hand closed. Count Vega stepped out of a doorway that led on to the first floor. Has he been waiting for me?

  ‘Come, I’ll walk with you,’ said the sea marshal.

  ‘They haven’t got to me,’ sighed Hector as they descended. ‘No more than they’re entitled. It was stupid.’

  ‘You were being a friend. You risked something for Drew and Gretchen,’ said Vega. ‘Surely that’s worth something? To have power and not use it is criminal. You could have left things to fate, but you did something about it instead.’

  ‘I’ve been an idiot.’

  ‘No,’ snapped Vega, grabbing him by the arm and turning him to face him. ‘You’ve been brave.’

  Hector tugged himself free and trudged down the remaining steps, arriving on the ground floor. Still the staff looked his way. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. He needed to get back to Bevan’s Tower, his home in Highcliff; get away from the glares. The tower was the Lord of Redmire’s residence when in the city, named after an early Boarlord.

  ‘Hector,’ said Vega as they walked through the double doors out of Traitors’ House. ‘I’d be proud to call you a friend, if I were Drew. He’s hunting Lucas now, and that’s thanks to you. Sleep easy tonight, little Boar.’

  Vega patted his back before striding off down the road in the direction of the harbour. He bowed to a trio of young ladies who passed by, bringing a chorus of giggles and blushes.

  ‘You need anything at all,’ he shouted back, saluting as he went. ‘Just call for me!’ In a moment he was lost in the noisy crowd.

  Hector was rubbing his palm once more. Suddenly aware, he shoved his hand into his pocket, as if the black mark were a physical manifestation of his shame. His spirits had picked up slightly after Vega’s kind words. He wondered where Drew was now, how far behind Lucas he was. If anybody could save Gretchen it was Drew, and he had Whitley to help. Of course, the communing had been risky, but what option had Hector had? He’d done the right thing, and he’d do it again if he had to. His mind wandering, he stepped out into the street.

  The carriage was almost upon him when the shriek of a passer-by alerted him to the danger. Hector stumbled as the carriage bore down, unable to get out of the way. The team of four horses pulling it reared up, hooves kicking as the driver hauled on the reins. The carriage bounced, its wheels bucking as it juddered to a halt. The clattering of hooves on cobbles sounded like swords hammering plate mail, the din deafening Hector as he staggered clear. Gradually the horses calmed, the driver breathing a sigh of relief as they settled. Hector looked back at them as they snorted and stamped, their skin coated in sweat.

  Back on the paving, Hector looked at the carriage. Two men sat on the driver’s bench, one short and one tall, each of them glowering at him. He recognized the carriage immediately. Its panelling was marked with faded red paint that was cracked along its length. The window pane in the door was shattered, a piece of cloth wadded into the splintered glass to keep the elements out. Redmire’s carriage of state had seen better days. Hector recalled his father telling him how his mother had arrived at their wedding in it. He’d kept it for sentimental reasons, never using it again after his mother had passed away. To see it in Highcliff now, in this condition, sickened Hector. When the carriage door opened his stomach dropped further.

  ‘My dear brother,’ said Vincent, smiling as he emerged, with Baron Huth’s golden chain of office standing proud on his chest. ‘Fancy running into you like this!’

  2

  The Scent

  The quiet was unnerving, the countryside still sleeping. The Talstaff Road was empty – not surprisingly considering the ungodly hour. Only the crazed or the desperate travelled before dawn, and these riders were far from mad. The two Greencloaks rode side by side, keeping the pace brisk as they tried to make up time on their quarry.

  Drew and Whitley had been travelling through the rolling hills of Westland for a week now, with no sign of their enemy. There were few people on the road, bar the occasional trader’s caravan or farmer heading to market. On each occasion the pair asked the strangers if they’d seen anyone on the road fitting the description of Lucas, Vankaskan or Gretchen, but none had. This raised the question of how the trio were travelling. Drew was sure that someone would have seen them or passed them. Had they been wrong to head south? Had Brutus’s corpse been mistaken?

  They stopped briefly at noon, simple trail rations of cured meat and flatbread staunching their hunger until the evening.

  ‘I wonder how Hector is faring,’ said Drew, washing down his food with a swig from his waterskin. He handed it to Whitley. Invariably, many of their conversations revolved around the Boarlord and what might have become of him.

  ‘Hopefully fine,’ said Whitley. ‘My father’s an understanding man. He’ll realize that Hector’s intentions were good.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Drew, staring back the way they had come. ‘I have to say I’m worried. I’ve seen how your father deals with those who disagree with him. He shouted me down when I suggested going after Gretchen.’

  ‘I’m sure he felt he was doing the right thing,’ said Whitley, stoppering the waterskin.

  ‘As did Hector, but that’ll count for nought.’ Drew squinted as his gaze drifted over the meadows, cloud shadows racing over the whispering grasses.

  They made good time in the afternoon, the horses opening their stride and quickening the pace. To the east was the vast Dyrewood, stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see, flanking them on their journey south. To be so close to the great forest stirred all kinds of emotions in Drew. As wild and savage as that time had been, his life had been so much simpler: eat, sleep, survive. The Dyrewood was where his life as a Werewolf had really begun, after fleeing the farm on the Cold Coast. He shivered, thinking back to that dreadful night.

  The trees grew in size as the woodland receded into the distance. Somewhere at the heart of the giant forest was Brackenholme, city of the Bearlord. Drew hoped he would see it again; it felt like a city he could one day call home.

  They pushed the horses until the afternoon gave way to evening. Drew didn’t want to waste any time, although he could feel tiredness setting in, taking hold. Still he stayed awake, focusing on the road ahead. Over the noise of the hooves he could hear his voice being called.

  ‘Drew …. Drew!’

  Snapping his head back he turned in the saddle. Whitley had pulled up and was frantically waving. He pulled hard on his reins, turning his horse and returning to the scout. As he approached, Whitley led Chancer off the road. Drew fell in line behind her. She had jumped out of her saddle and slowly advanced on foot, head lowered. The ground was uneven as the grassy bank rose.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Two things,’ she said, looking back. ‘The horses are exhausted. It’s dark now and if one should stumble and break a leg, we’re ruined.’

  ‘But we’re losing time, stopping now.
They’re getting further away!’

  ‘Keep pushing these horses and you’ll kill them. They need rest. We need rest.’

  Drew said nothing, but begrudgingly agreed with a cursory nod.

  ‘What’s the other thing?’

  ‘Tracks,’ she said. ‘Someone’s camped here.’

  Drew looked up from where he sat in his saddle. The incline rose to a hilltop. He hadn’t noticed it when he’d ridden by. He stayed silent, watching Whitley work. Soon they were at the top.

  The hillock had indeed been used as a campsite. Shrubs and bushes crowned the crest of it, providing cover to anyone resting there while affording a view of the road. A fire-pit had been dug, and the grass worn thin over the area. Whitley handed her reins to Drew before investigating the campsite.

  She crouched, putting her hand into the charred remains. She sniffed at the coals, crumbling them and rubbing them into her palms. Scrambling around the fire’s edge she rooted through what lay around, including two charred sticks.

  ‘They made a spit,’ she said, waving one at Drew before tossing it. ‘And there are stripped bones scattered about too, looks like wild boar.’

  ‘They were here last night?’

  ‘The opposite. They camped here today.’

  ‘Today? So they’re travelling by night?’

  Whitley nodded, rising from her crouch and pacing a wider circle around the camp.

  ‘It makes sense, if they’re trying not to be seen.’

  Drew chewed his thumb, watching Whitley as she prowled the deserted camp. He wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but he had faith that she knew what she was doing. She bore little resemblance to the frightened youth he’d met in the Dyrewood. She now had the confidence and assurance of a seasoned scout. Her time with Captain Harker in the Badlands had allowed her to mature in many ways.

  ‘I count twelve horses,’ she said eventually after examining the edge of the site. ‘As many bedrolls too.’ She walked back and took Chancer’s reins from him. Drew turned his horse and started out of the campsite.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Whitley.

  ‘The Talstaff. If they’ve been here through the day and they’re travelling at night then that means we’re right behind them, surely? If we move now we can catch them!’

  ‘Drew, are you not listening to me? The horses are exhausted, as are we. We’ve pushed them all day long.’

  ‘But we’re so close!’

  ‘And we’ll get closer, but this fire tells me they left this site hours ago, at dusk. They’re long gone.’

  Drew snarled with frustration.

  ‘I could go on ahead. On foot. You could catch up when you’ve rested.’

  ‘Drew, this is madness. Get out of your saddle. Eat. Sleep.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘No buts,’ she said, her voice stern now. ‘If you caught them up now what good would you be? You’re exhausted; Lucas, Vankaskan and their men will be rested. It’s suicide. Let’s rest while we can. We can face them on our terms, when we can fight them at full strength.’

  Reluctantly Drew stopped. Grabbing his saddle he swung off his horse, landing shakily. She wasn’t wrong. He was tired. His legs throbbed and his back ached, and no doubt Whitley felt the same.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  ‘Why do you think I suggested we rest?’ she smiled, taking his reins and leading the horses to the edge of the camp. Drew unpacked his bedroll and rations.

  ‘Cured meat again?’ offered Drew, waving a stick of grey meat in her direction. Whitley grimaced, but took it, settling down beside him.

  ‘I’d suggest foraging for rabbits, but that’d mean starting a fire.’

  ‘Is that a problem? A fire would keep us warm.’

  ‘It’d attract attention. Lucas got away with one in the day, but at night it’d bring trouble. There are plenty of brigands in the Kinmoors who might look for a camp to raid off the Talstaff Road.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘That’s why you have me,’ smiled Whitley, winking.

  The day had been long, and hungry though they were, they had to ration their food. Whitley sat opposite Drew on her bedroll, licking the last taste of cured meat from her fingertips. She noticed him watching.

  ‘Sorry,’ she blushed. ‘I know; it’s no way for a lady to eat.’

  ‘Duke Bergan would be mortified!’ he exclaimed, and she began to giggle.

  ‘I’ll tell you what; while we’re out here can we just concentrate on being a soldier and a scout? I’ve had a gutful of etiquette in Highcliff this past month!’

  They laughed out loud together. It was a pleasant feeling.

  ‘Look!’ she gasped, pointing.

  The Wolfshead blade was whipped from its sheath and its tip cut through the air in the direction she pointed.

  ‘You can put that away,’ she snorted, jumping to her feet and dashing to the bushes. Feeling foolish, Drew got to his feet and followed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Black-hearts!’

  When Drew caught up he found her rummaging through a bush, plucking dark blue berries from the foliage.

  ‘Oh, you mean bilberries,’ he said, grinning. She looked back at him, her mouth already brimming with the small, sweet fruit.

  ‘No, I mean what I said; black-hearts. I don’t know what you call them out on the Cold Coast but in the Dyrewood there’s only one name for them. And I like to think if the Dyrewood is home to all trees that it’s home to all bushes as well, so black-hearts it is!’

  Drew chuckled, joining her as she stripped the bush of its ripened berries. They tasted delicious. They ate what they could, each filling a pouch with additional berries for the road tomorrow.

  ‘This is the life, living off the wild,’ sighed Whitley. Drew watched her as she feasted. She was so at ease, relaxed. So different from how she had been when they’d first met. She caught him looking.

  ‘What?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ he said, looking away, abashed at having been spotted. She gave him a dig in the ribs with her elbow.

  ‘Come on, what?’

  ‘You seem very … content,’ he said, cocking his head as he appraised her. ‘Do you remember when we first met? You seemed out of your depth; a million leagues away from being a scout, but look at you now!’

  ‘Let’s just say that meeting you was an epiphany, Drew,’ she said, snatching up the remaining berries, depositing them into her pouch and drawing it shut by its string.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A revelation,’ she said. ‘When we met I was still a child, one who had been pampered for too long. Yet you and I are close in age. You’d survived in the Dyrewood, alone, for months. That trip into the forest with Master Hogan was my first away from Brackenholme. When I got back it was like the blinkers had been removed; I could see at last, and knew what I wanted.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Drew, as they stepped out of the bushes. A chill breeze blew through the campsite. As warm as the summer days were, the nights were still cool. Whitley pulled her cloak about her shoulders.

  ‘Freedom,’ she said, simply.

  Drew laughed, bitterly.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she said, punching him in the arm.

  ‘We’re both after the same thing but heading in different directions. You’re a noblewoman and you want to live wild and free. That’s how I started out, but I seem destined to wear a crown.’

  She hesitantly put an arm round his shoulder.

  ‘You’ll get what you want, Drew, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Will you remain a scout?’

  Whitley laughed.

  ‘My mother and father humour me presently. He’ll have been furious that I joined you on this journey. He was angry enough that I was gone for so long with Captain Harker. No, he won’t be pleased at all. Broghan’s the important one. He’s the heir to the throne who’ll follow Father. Me? I’ll be married off when the time’s right. Father wo
n’t want me to come to any harm, not just because I’m his daughter, but also because of the stability of Brackenholme.’

  ‘To be forced to marry just seems so wrong.’

  Whitley watched him sit down and moved to the opposite side of the fire-pit.

  ‘Well,’ she said quietly. ‘We don’t always get what we want.’

  They were quiet for a time, each lost in their own thoughts. Drew considered his future. Who would they want him to marry? Bergan had probably already got the wheels in motion, plotting some union that would benefit the whole of Lyssia. Gretchen had been betrothed to Lucas. Perhaps that was the intention of the Wolf’s Council, to pair the two of them up in light of the Lion’s demise. The thought of marriage to Gretchen caused his heart to quicken, and not in a pleasant way. He shivered at the thought, still unsure of how he felt about her, or she about him. She thrilled and terrified him. Infuriating and unpredictable though she was, he missed her company.

  ‘I hope Hector’s all right,’ whispered Whitley.

  ‘He will be. He’s resourceful, and safe in Highcliff. No harm can come to him there, not with Lucas and Vankaskan fleeing. It’s Gretchen I’m worried about.’

  ‘You think a lot of the Werefox, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve grown to,’ he admitted. ‘I couldn’t stand her when we first met. That journey from Redmire was chaotic to say the least. We were at one another’s throats most of the time, with poor Hector stuck in between.’

  ‘That must have been fun for poor Hector,’ smiled Whitley.

  ‘Brenn bless him, he endured a lot. The poor chap had just lost his father and had the two of us bickering like children.’

  Whitley considered her words carefully, keeping her eyes on the firepit.

  ‘You know how she feels about you, don’t you?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Gretchen,’ said Whitley, kicking at the dead coals with her boot heel. ‘She told me.’ She looked up, staring straight at him.