Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘She did?’ said Drew, suddenly unnerved. What had Gretchen told Whitley? Did he want to know?

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ said Drew, waving her apology away with a hand.

  There was an awkward silence, as Drew picked at the hem of his cloak and Whitley looked anywhere but at Drew. Whitley spoke first.

  ‘The horses,’ she said, raising a finger as if she’d just remembered. ‘Better get them settled for the night. There’s much to do!’ She jumped up and hopped over to them.

  ‘Yes,’ said Drew, calling after her as she busied herself with a task that could have waited. He sat there in the dark, head swimming with thoughts of his friends. The road ahead, following the Fox’s scent. The Boar left behind, back in the city. And the scout by his side, unearthing his feelings. Gretchen, Hector, Whitley; they all vied for his attention.

  ‘Much to do indeed.’

  3

  The Lords of Redmire

  Hector couldn’t sleep. He might have been the only living soul in the room, but he wasn’t alone. He could hear voices, whispering in the dark. The windows were open, faded curtains flapping in the breeze. The city was quiet, the curfew keeping the people off the street, and Hector felt he must be the only person awake in Highcliff. As the night had drawn in the voices had arrived, creeping out of the woodwork, whispering through the floorboards and hissing beneath the bed. Hector’s nerves were in tatters, his mind desperately trying to convince him that he was imagining them, although a cold dread told him they were very real.

  Intent upon ignoring them, he had busied himself with paperwork from Redmire, spreading the scrolls and ledgers across his bed. Not only had Vincent arrived unannounced, he’d also brought a chestful of bills that needed settling. Since Redmire had been sacked by Captain Brutus during the last days of the Lion’s regime, the town remained in disarray. The palisade was ruined, people were homeless, the old hall had burned to the ground – the home of the Boarlords was in dire need of assistance, and it was Hector’s duty to make sure that happened. Still a friend of the Wolf’s Council, he was better placed than anyone to ensure some emergency monies headed to his people.

  Having left his treacherous twin behind when he and his friends had fled down the Redwine, Hector had assumed that Vincent would look after their people. But judging by the fact that his brother was now in Highcliff, intent upon frittering away what money Baron Huth had left, Hector could see the people of Redmire were being neglected. He’d pressed Vincent on who he’d left in charge, and he’d been very non-committal on the matter. As far as Hector could tell, Gerard, the captain of the house guard, had assumed some kind of ministerial role and was carrying out the lord’s law in Redmire. Vincent had avoided leadership, instead merely ensuring that taxes were still collected from their people, regardless of their poverty. When this money was gone, he’d borrowed from Redmire’s more affluent citizens. Since he’d turned up at Bevan’s Tower with a crate-load of debt, it was clear to Hector that he’d exhausted their generosity. Now it was left to Hector to sort out the mess while Vincent seemed in no hurry to return to Redmire.

  Hector had spent the last few days lying on his bed, writing more than eighty personal letters to creditors, his words gradually getting more scrawled and illegible as time had worn on. Dark stains marked the quilt where he’d knocked the inkpot over from jumping when he’d heard noises in the night. Two candles flickered on tables on either side of the bed, almost melted down to their stubs. Hector found himself worrying that he was being too frivolous, burning two candles instead of one. He cursed his brother’s greed, forcing Hector to be the sensible one, having to think of thrifty measures to save coin. This was no way for a Werelord to live.

  ‘Hector …’

  That was the clearest voice he’d heard all night. It came from near the door, either in the shadows around or beyond it. He withdrew his dagger. He’d been mocked for the purchase of the gaudy knife, but he was grateful he had it now. Holding the blade in his shaking hands gave him a touch of courage.

  ‘Go away!’ he cried quietly. ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Hector …’

  Hector wiped tears from his cheek. Was he mad? Another shadow moved in the corner of the room. His thoughts rushed back to the corpse in the Pits and the swirling shadows that taunted him, threatened him. It was all well and good for him to commune with the dead when he was in control, choosing the terms, but what could he do when they chose to commune with him? He couldn’t shut them out. You couldn’t hide from the dead.

  He could hear giggles now, beyond the door.

  Perhaps if he confronted the shadows head on, he might be able to banish them. He gripped the dagger in his sweating palm. He knew the warding cantrips, he’d scoured the arcane books in search of something that might protect him from the spirits. He started to whisper the ancient words over and over as he clambered off the bed. With his free hand he picked up a candle stub, its flame barely alive upon its tin dish. His battle with the dead shaman had been a warning, alerting him to the dangers of communing. The encounter with Brutus in the Pits had been a reminder. Hector was grateful that Bergan had punished him, awakening him to the perilous path he was on. He was finished with communing, finished with the dead. The danger was too great.

  The giggles continued, only his name occasionally breaking up the ethereal laughter.

  Hector crept across the room, floorboards creaking beneath bare feet as he approached the door. He repeated the warding chant, trying to feel confident, protected. The words of magick had been written in a long-dead language, the dialect and pronunciation alien to all but magisters. The Dragonlords had been the first to harness magicks, and most of the knowledge had died with that extinct race. What scraps remained had been protected for centuries by the Magisterial Guild across Lyssia, closely guarded by only a few. Hector’s eyes widened as he approached the door. He held the dagger pointing out from his belly in a white-knuckled grip. Placing the candle on the sideboard, he reached for the doorknob.

  The giggling shifted to frantic whispering, quickening as his hand neared, as if in panicked discussion with another. The brass handle was cold to the touch. Hector’s fingers closed round the metal ball. The mechanism clunked as the latch slowly lifted.

  The voices stopped.

  The corridor was empty, but for the long rug that covered the floor. Picking up the candle he stepped out, holding it before him. His hand trembled, causing the already flickering light to sputter almost out of existence. The short passage led from the lord’s bedroom to a sweeping staircase that circled through Bevan’s Tower, past the guest rooms below and down to the ground. He shuffled down the corridor, stumbling over the rug’s furled edge and up to the banister. Leaning over the rail he peered down into the darkness. In the dim light he could make out the large hall at street level. He blinked, unsure whether he’d seen movement.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ he called, regretting it immediately. You fool, Hector. If there’s an intruder down there then they know you’re coming now. Cursing, he set off downstairs, no longer attempting to be quiet. He let his feet slap the marble steps, deliberately rapped the stone handrail with his dagger. When he got to the first floor he contemplated knocking on Vincent’s door, but then thought better of it. The resentment Victor had always shown towards Hector seemed to have grown since their father’s murder. If anything, Hector would have been more justified in resenting his brother, as it was Vincent’s deceit that had brought about Baron Huth’s death at the hands of the Lionguard. Hector wasn’t about to provoke Vincent. Hector might have been older by a matter of minutes, but Vincent was the bigger brother, both physically and in personality.

  Hector continued to the ground floor. As he approached the bottom he could discern noises coming from the back of the hall, giggling. The shadow creatures. Hector gripped his dagger in a nervous sweaty palm as he advanced.

  He remembered the feasts his father us
ed to throw in the hall of Bevan’s Tower, where the great and not-so-good of Leopold’s court would assemble and take advantage of his hospitality. Now the place felt like a tomb. Dust sheets covered many pieces of furniture, mirrors remained blanketed and cobwebs hung all around. Busy with Wolf’s Council duties since arriving, Hector had been living, dining and sleeping solely in the lord’s chambers, leaving the rest of the tower to continue gathering dust.

  He walked through, glancing about, mumbling his protection cantrip with every step. A breeze gusted through, causing dust sheets to dance like a host of ghosts. Where was the wind coming from? He hadn’t left any windows open. Hector walked towards a window that overlooked the garden, feeling the cool night air as he drew nearer. It was wide open. Another gust rushed in, racing over the candle and snuffing it out. Hector’s heart froze as the darkness smothered him.

  A giggle behind him.

  Hector moved fast, spinning and dropping the candle. He held his left hand up, palm out. Show the devils the black mark, he thought. Show them who the magister is. Show them who’s in command.

  ‘Return from whence you came!’ he screamed, his face white with fear and anger.

  The room was quiet, for a moment. Slowly the giggling returned. As Hector’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw two shadows moving, peeling away from the hall’s blackest corners. One was tall and rangy, its movement spindly like a twig man. The other was short and squat, lurching, giggling all the while. Hector wanted to run, but his legs failed him; he wanted to scream, but his voice had vanished. The taller shadow stretched its arms out as if it might embrace him, before bringing them together swiftly.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  A slow handclap, like the kind given to a poor jester; a tired applause tinged with malice. The shadow’s fat companion continued to giggle, waddling closer, ahead of its partner. Hector hadn’t expected a shadow to be able to clap.

  The men materialized, shadows solidifying. The tall figure wore a leather coat that hung to his knees, tied round the middle by a chain-link weapon belt. His slitted eyes glinted at Hector from his pockmarked face as he continued his handclap. The squat fellow had a stagger to his step, his fat legs stumbling as he closed in. He wore a thick woollen vest covered in stains, his hairy arms bare from the shoulder down. His face was wide, blubbery lips fixed in an idiotic grin. His giggle wouldn’t stay in, spilling out of his mouth at every opportunity. Hector thought he recognized the men, but couldn’t place them. Either way, he felt in terrible danger.

  Hector backed away, bumping into a sheet-covered table and sending some chairs balanced on it crashing to the ground. He shrieked, bringing his dagger up as the tall man advanced. The short man scuttled round the table, kicking the upturned chairs aside. They circled him, closing in.

  ‘Get back!’ Hector shouted. ‘Brenn help me! Get back, or you’ll feel my blade.’

  ‘That’s no blade, little pig,’ said the tall man, reaching behind his back. When his hand re-emerged it held a long knife, one side razor sharp, the other serrated. The starlight that filtered through the window danced along its length. It looked lethal. Lethal and well-used.

  ‘Ibal,’ said the tall man. ‘Show him yours.’

  The fat man swiftly whipped out a sickle. The crescent blade flipped as he tossed it from one stumpy hand to the other, giggling continuously.

  ‘Stop it!’ gasped Hector, unable to hide his fear. ‘Stop it, please!’

  ‘Stop what?’ said the tall man, looking about and shrugging. Hector stumbled over a fallen stool, wheeling backwards and crashing to the floor. The jewelled dagger was gone, skittering along the floor. Quick as a flash the fat man named Ibal was over him, his head twitching as he loomed above. The tall man appeared behind, staring down, twirling the knife.

  ‘Leave him, lads,’ came a familiar voice. ‘That’s one of your lords. Show some respect.’ Both men stepped away as footsteps approached. From his position Hector was relieved to see Vincent appear over him. Hector raised his hand for assistance but the younger twin stepped past towards the window.

  ‘It’s as cold as a crypt down here,’ he said, slamming it shut. ‘Were you both born in a barn?’

  Ibal giggled louder than ever while the tall man simply stood still, staring as Hector struggled to his feet. He noticed the tall man had his dagger, appraising its worth by the starlight.

  ‘A barn would be a palace in comparison,’ rasped the tall man.

  Vincent took the dagger, inspecting it himself. He chuckled and handed it back to a grateful Hector.

  ‘What woke you, brother?’

  ‘I heard voices,’ said Hector. ‘Outside my room. What were you doing up there?’ Hector stared at the tall man, finding courage now his brother was present.

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You were up there, you and him. Outside my room.’

  The man shook his head and looked to Vincent.

  ‘We did no such thing, my lord. Haven’t strayed from the hall as you instructed.’

  Vincent shrugged at Hector.

  ‘There you have it. I don’t know what you heard, Hector, but it wasn’t these fellows. You must be hearing things, eh?’

  ‘Who are these men?’ said Hector in an urgent tone to his brother. He could feel a sickening sensation taking hold. It was bad enough that his brother was in league with these rogues. Worse still, that neither of them had been upstairs. Whatever he’d heard and seen in the darkness was connected with the communing. His world was unravelling, the lines between the living and the dead blurring.

  ‘I thought I’d introduced them. My apologies, Hector.’ He gestured towards the sinister duo. ‘These are my personal guard, Ringlin and Ibal. They drove me here, remember? They’re the first of a new Boarguard. They’ll stay here with me while we sort out our business. It seems Father’s soldiers didn’t have the stomach for real work under me; they’ve near enough disbanded. Thank goodness we have Gerard back there running things. You know he wants to become Sheriff of Redmire? Sounds like revolution.’

  ‘Sounds like someone cares about our people. Gerard’s a good man, and if Redmire needs a Sheriff he has my blessing,’ said Hector, following his brother towards the disused fireplace. Vincent collapsed into a sheet-covered chair, a cloud of dust erupting as he landed.

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I don’t care about Redmire. The only reason I’m here is to resolve the business of ascension.’

  ‘Ascension? I don’t follow.’

  ‘Why, the throne of Redmire, dear brother. Father, Brenn rest his soul, is gone. We need to ensure my ascent to the throne is approved quickly. I seek counsel with Bergan tomorrow. I shall have the whole affair tied up swiftly.’

  Vincent looked very pleased with himself. Hector was aware of his henchmen moving behind him, drifting in and out of his field of vision. Cold sweat pooled on his neck and chest. His head pounded with worry and he was overwhelmed by nausea.

  ‘I wasn’t aware there was anything to tie up,’ said Hector, nervously. He moved back to the fireplace so he could keep an eye on Ringlin and Ibal. ‘Besides, don’t forget that Redmire’s throne is mine by rights, to give up should I wish to.’

  Vincent smiled, nodding. He was suddenly animated.

  ‘I know, I’m a bit previous aren’t I? Of course, once you’ve renounced your claim, witnessed by Bergan or Mikkel, I can get on with arranging a coronation. Father had property in Highcliff, did he not? It might be worth selling those estates and businesses off, ploughing that money back into Redmire upon my return.’

  ‘That’s important revenue our family depends upon. Selling it would bring a quick windfall, but leave us in a dire state long-term. I can’t agree,’ said Hector, catching his breath before continuing.

  ‘Besides which, I haven’t decided to abdicate.’

  ‘You’re a magister, Hector, happier in the company of your books, no? You’d struggle to run your own social life, let alone a court. I, on the other hand, have been gro
omed for this role. Who shadowed Father these last four years? And who vanished from the map, a skulking servant for that rat, Vankaskan? You’re not cut out for ruling. Leave that to me.’

  This was more than Hector could take.

  ‘I shall not,’ said Hector, indignantly. ‘I won’t let you ruin Redmire. If you continue as you are doing you’ll destroy Father’s hard work, as well as your reputation. I know right from wrong, and I know what’s best for Redmire. For everyone’s sake I think it best I keep an eye on things for the foreseeable future.’

  Vincent’s response didn’t come immediately. He rose from his chair, pausing to brush the dust off his dressing gown. He smiled at Ringlin and Ibal. Hector glanced round to see their response. When he turned back Vincent’s face was inches from his own.

  ‘I’ll make this easy for you,’ said Vincent quietly. He put his hands on Hector’s shoulders, the grip tightening. ‘You’ll renounce your claim to the throne.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  Vincent squeezed hard, digging thumbs and fingers through the material of Hector’s gown. The magister saw dark, russet hairs emerging from his brother’s sleeves, spreading over his broad hands as he gripped. He bared his teeth, snorting, forcing his brother down. Hector felt his knees give, legs buckling as he dropped to the floor. Vincent held on, his brother kneeling in his shadow. Vincent’s chest heaved now, his breath hot and laboured as his ribs cracked and shifted. Hector watched, horrified, listening to the bones of his brother’s head popping and grating. Hector had never learned to control his therianthropy; the fact that Vincent had mastered it was news to him.

  ‘I shall have the throne of Redmire, Hector,’ said Vincent, the teeth of his lower jaw jutting from his mouth: the tusks of the Boar. ‘There are two ways this can happen. You step down like a good boy, or I claim it as the only living heir.’

  He released his grasp, sending Hector headlong into the fireplace. His brow hit the brickwork, his temple splitting instantly. He looked up as Vincent stepped over him to join his men. Hector no longer recognized him. This wasn’t the boy he had grown up with, once a friend, always a brother. He wanted to cry, for his father, for Redmire, even for Vincent. Hector scrambled to his feet, head streaming with blood as he staggered from the hall. Grabbing the handles of the great doors he threw them open, nightclothes flapping, and slipped and stumbled into the gardens beyond.