Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘The Haunted Forest; that’s what they call it,’ whispered another of the Lionguard.

  ‘Haunted or not we’re going in,’ barked Colbard, nursing his jaw. ‘She can’t have got far. She’s just a girl, remember; a stupid, spoiled one who knows nothing about life outside a throne room. We’ll soon flush her out.’

  The soldiers spread out, saying their prayers before disappearing into the dark, leafless domain of the Dyrewood.

  From her hiding place Gretchen could hear their voices as they approached, calling to one another, big brave men afraid of the shadows that lurked within the ancient forest. And so they should be, she thought to herself. There were any number of dangers waiting to take their lives within the Dyrewood; poisonous plants, suffocating serpents, cannibal Wyldermen. All inhabited the wilds of the Woodland Realm, but none were the worst threat to the lives of the Lionguard at this moment. Gretchen gritted her teeth, determination set like stone. Today they faced the Werefox.

  They were correct about one thing – she could only get so far into the forest. The first fifty feet or so around the Dyrewood’s outer edge was marked by a barrier of tangled thorns and thickets, impassable by anyone but the most experienced woodsmen. Beyond the dead trees and razor sharp vines was the deep green sanctuary of the forest, but it might as well have been a hundred miles away from Gretchen. Her passage was halted by the vast nest of thorns, and she’d have to bypass the Lionguard before she could find another way in. She looked at her hands, blood dripping between her knuckles where they were clenched into fists. She tried not to think about the pain and instead focused on the approaching Lionguard.

  The soldier was ten feet away, oblivious to her presence. His eyes searched the black forest floor, as he cut away at the tangleweeds and risen roots with his shortsword, trying to hack his way through. Occasionally he jumped when he saw movement, only for a small animal to scurry away through the undergrowth. A nearby companion shouted something at him, and the soldier cursed him back with a frightened laugh. It was dark and gloomy and visibility was deteriorating as dusk set in.

  His eyes fixed on the forest floor, the soldier never saw the thorny noose descend and loop round his throat. The barbed hooks caught him clean round the neck, and Gretchen allowed herself to swing down from the other side of the tree bough above, holding on to the vine. Thorns became embedded in her palms as her body weight lifted the man into the air. He kicked spasmodically, dropping his shortsword as his hands grasped at the thick woody coil. He couldn’t make a sound, his death rattle silenced by the thorny noose. Gretchen winced, looking away, as the soldier kicked one last time before ceasing his struggle.

  She released the vine and caught his body as it dropped to the forest floor. Her hands trembled as her body reacted. You’ve just killed a man, Gretchen. She tried to concentrate. These men were killers, and she would mourn the murderer when time allowed. Picking up his shortsword, she checked her bearings. Two of the Lionguard worked their way through the undergrowth to the north of her, while to the south she could see five of them. Who knew where the rest were? There were still too many of them, cutting off her search for a way into the Dyrewood. She crouched low and tried to remain calm, blood pooling in her palm as she clenched the sword hilt.

  Not for the first time that day, her thoughts went to Drew. She’d seen him transform, watched how he’d used his powers to aid him in battle. Lucas had changed to bully and terrify her, but Drew’s lycanthropy was a weapon as great as any, and his to command. She thought back to her dear dead father, Earl Gaston, remembering the lessons he’d taught her about ‘the change’. All therianthropes had the ability to transform, but some, the stronger, more physical ones, had greater control than others. Gretchen had rarely allowed the Fox into her life, scared of what it was capable of, restricting herself to flashes of teeth to intimidate others. Now she needed to embrace her animal within.

  Ever since her capture the Fox had been waiting patiently inside Gretchen for its moment to come forth. When she’d faced Lucas in the caravan, it had felt as if she’d opened her mind for the first time and lifted a latch. Now she let the cage door swing silently open, the beast advancing freely. Her skin burned and itched all over as she felt hairs beginning to break through the surface. She gritted her teeth, grating them as they broke free from her gums, and rose up, long and needle-sharp. She wanted to shout out, but held back her cry, all too aware that a scream would end her escape before it had truly begun. The blood ceased flowing from her palms as they toughened round the sword’s grip, dark claws ripping free from her fingertips. The pain began to subside as her body settled. It wasn’t a complete change like those she’d seen from the greatest Werelords, but it was a start. She felt strong, fit, faster than she’d ever been in her life. Buoyed by this new confidence she scanned the undergrowth for her enemies.

  ‘Where’s Mayhew?’ asked one scruffy looking soldier, suddenly aware that his companion was missing.

  ‘He was there a minute ago,’ shouted Colbard, a little further away. ‘Mayhew?’

  The scruffy soldier didn’t get the opportunity to call out again. The Werefox burst through the undergrowth at his feet, her shortsword catching him in the stomach before her paw snatched him round the mouth. She dragged him to the floor as he let out a muffled wail.

  ‘McLeod?’ This was Colbard again, but the soldier didn’t reply. He was already dead. The big captain turned his axe in his hands nervously.

  ‘Come on lads, she’s just a girl! She can’t harm you!’

  The old campaigner was ready for her when she came at him, raising his axe up to her as she leapt through the briars at him. The partly transformed Werefox turned in the air, bringing her shortsword down to deflect the weight of the axe blow, but it still sent her tumbling through the thorns. The captain might have killed her if she’d been any other foe, but he was under strict orders. She was to remain unharmed, even if she did somehow manage to maim or kill his men.

  He hacked furiously at the tangle of dead ivy and thorny vines, ripping at them to try to get near to her, but she was moving again, away from the Lionguard.

  ‘Move your backsides you lazy lot! She’s getting away!’

  Gretchen could see her opportunity now. Only one more soldier remained ahead of her and then she’d have them all at her back. Even if she continued running along the outer edge of the forest, she could still lose them. There was no way they could keep up with her now that she’d taken on the Fox. The soldier ahead could see her coming and raised his sword warily, trying to block her path as she tore through the undergrowth. She threw the shortsword at him, which he parried easily, but the distraction allowed her to hit him with an uppercut. Her fist connected squarely with his jaw, sending him tumbling into the bushes.

  She dived beyond him and the way ahead was clear.

  Gretchen could hear a noise in the undergrowth ahead, something larger than the animals that had caused the soldiers alarm earlier. She changed the angle of her path to avoid it, keen to avoid any other encounters that might allow her kidnappers to recapture her. Her heart quickened, so close to freedom.

  In the excitement of this first ever change and her battle against the Lionguard, Gretchen realized she had forgotten one important factor. Of course, the guards weren’t going to harm her. She was the prisoner of Lucas. She’d forgotten all about the Lion Prince.

  At that moment the Werelion exploded from the black forest beside her, roaring as he came. The thicket was shredded as he ran, his brute strength breaking its thorny hold on him. She stumbled, primal fear coming to the fore in the face of a greater, more ferocious killer. He snapped his massive jaws at her as he neared, his body closer to that of a lion than a man now. His paw caught at her, tearing down her side and causing her to bark with pain. She immediately went into a tumble, getting caught up in the brambles and hitting the forest floor.

  ‘Why do you run, my love?’ bellowed Lucas, a malicious smile splitting his face. He actually seemed to enjoy the
hunt. Gretchen struggled to free herself from the ivy that held her fast as the Werelion bore down on her.

  ‘I didn’t think she had it in her,’ rasped Vankaskan from the shadows, drawing Gretchen’s attention briefly. His large black shape had emerged through the trees, greasy black pelt glistening with oil as his red eyes blinked, emotionless. A weight on her torso brought her attention back to Lucas. His huge paw pinned her across the chest.

  With her last ounce of strength she brought her right paw up to strike him. She’d tried to strike Drew once, when she’d first met him and the boy from the Cold Coast had infuriated her. But he’d been too quick for her. He’d caught her hand in his own grip and held her fast. Lucas was no Drew.

  The clawed hand flew straight and true, tearing three long bloody strips across the left-hand side of his face. The transformed prince let out a terrible scream of agony as he brought both his paws up to his head, staggering back. She scrambled backwards, struggling to free herself from the vines, helpless before the Lion. He glared down at her, his eyes wide with rage. She no longer recognized the blond-haired prince, and it was clear he no longer recognized her. He was about to lunge at her neck when the Wererat darted in swiftly to pull the young Werelion back.

  ‘Let go of me, Rat!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll kill her! Dirty little dog!’

  His jaws gnashed with bloodlust, his mind fractured. Gretchen lay still, petrified. For once, she was grateful that Vankaskan was there to keep the prince at bay. Her body reverted to its human state as the Ratlord stood between the two of them, the remaining soldiers of the Lionguard beginning to gather round. Vankaskan opened his palms in a show of peace, stepping over to the prince. The Wererat whispered to him as the Lion swayed violently from side to side, trying to see past the Rat to Gretchen.

  Gradually the prince calmed, staggering away as the Ratlord remained guarding the girl. As Lucas stumbled back towards the camp, his anger subsiding thanks to the Wererat’s words, Vankaskan snatched Colbard’s cloak, tearing it off the north-man’s shoulders. The Ratlord threw it down to the shivering Gretchen.

  ‘Put that on, girl. You have placed yourself on the wrong side of your fiancé. If you want to live I suggest you do exactly as you’re told from now on. Understand?’

  Gretchen nodded, eyes frantic, fully aware of how close she’d just come to death. Colbard reached down and snatched her by the wrist as his men watched, cursing the Fox of Hedgemoor and dragging her back to the wagon.

  1

  The Lord of Thieves

  Duke Bergan stood with his hands behind his back, barrel chest puffed out as he stared at Highcliff Keep. He kept his chin raised, eyes peering up at the ramparts from beneath bushy red brows. An arrow bounced off the ground ten feet away, ricocheting into the air. More than two dozen additional arrows lay about or stood embedded in the earth around him.

  ‘Lord Protector,’ said a soldier, his voice strained with concern. ‘Might it not be an idea to retreat and join us behind the barricade?’

  The man’s name was Reuben Fry, an archer from Sturmland who’d once been a member of the Lionguard. When Leopold had been overthrown he’d been among the first to take the new oath to the re-established Wolfguard. Not only was he their best shot, but he also had the keenest eyesight. Rumour had it that he was descended from the Hawklords, but Fry wouldn’t comment on the matter. He peered out from behind a palisade wall they’d constructed close to the gorge that circled the castle.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Bergan, taking a lungful of air. ‘I’m not going to let Leopold’s lackeys interfere with my daily constitutionals. Besides, let them fire. It’s their ammunition they’re wasting and I see no silver arrowheads.’

  ‘He’s got some good archers in there, my lord. It’s only a matter of time before one of them finds their target. They might not kill you but they could put you out of action.’ The man was clearly concerned for Bergan’s safety. The Bearlord unhurriedly returned to the barricade.

  ‘Very well,’ he said gruffly. ‘How many arrows have they lost? I counted around thirty.’

  ‘Closer to forty, my lord,’ said another man, smiling. Four other soldiers stood behind the barricade, which was studded with arrows on the side facing the keep.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Bergan, slapping the man’s back. ‘Keep up the splendid work, lads. If one of those archers so much as spits over those battlements I want to know.’

  The soldiers saluted as Fry escorted Bergan away. Within moments the two of them were walking through the High Square. Since the siege had begun, the square had been transformed into a temporary military base, tents used for armouries, dining, billeting and healing filling every quarter. It was a fully functioning army camp.

  ‘Any sign of him this morning?’ asked Bergan, nodding to the soldiers who stopped and saluted as they passed.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Fry, quickening his stride to keep pace. ‘Saw him myself at daybreak. He’s there every sunrise lately in addition to each sunset. He’s worse at night, raging along the battlements. His men leave the ramparts so he can run riot. If you’re in his way, you’re going over the wall. He’s different at dawn, though.’

  ‘Different? This is Leopold, remember? The man’s fury knows no bounds.’

  ‘He stands calmly with the sun at his back, staring out to the horizon of the White Sea.’

  ‘Out to sea, you say?’

  ‘Yes, as if looking for something. Maybe he’s expecting a ship to sail into the harbour and spirit him away. He’s been seen there every morning for the last five days.’

  ‘The only ship that’ll spirit him away is death’s raft to the underworld! You say he’s calm in the mornings?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Calmest I’ve ever seen, and I served him for a number of years.’

  The duke stroked his beard, twisting the red locks.

  ‘Keep your eye on him, Fry. Could just be me getting twitchy, but I’d rather be cautious than reckless.’

  ‘He’ll do nothing without my seeing it, my lord,’ said the Sturmlander, bowing. Six Greencloaks stood nearby, waiting for their liege. Bergan clapped his hand round Fry’s, shaking it vigorously.

  ‘Good man,’ he said, turning to depart. ‘And Fry, have you no captain working the archers?’

  ‘Not strictly speaking, my lord. I’m overseeing them presently, as Captain Harker has gone chasing after Lord Drew. They’re responding well, but we could do with a senior officer. They’ll only put up with me barking orders for so long!’

  The archer smiled at the duke. Bergan wagged a finger as he departed, calling over his shoulder as he went.

  ‘Well volunteered, man! It’s Captain Fry from now on; deal with them as you will!’

  Bergan disappeared into the crowd, Greencloaks flanking him, leaving a perplexed yet proud Reuben Fry, Captain of the Wolfguard, behind.

  The duke’s head buzzed as he walked to the Crow’s Nest. Count Vega had nicknamed the wooden tower on account of its height and position in the city. The lofty scaffold was the command post in High Square, directing the allied armies’ movements. Bergan’s thoughts revolved around the Werelion and what his next move might be. Leopold was boxed in, going nowhere. Why hadn’t he surrendered? He should have done so by now, surely? It was nearly six weeks since the siege began – what was the Lion waiting for?

  Bergan left his Greencloaks and pounded up the steps of the Crow’s Nest. Six flights up brought him to a covered platform that allowed views of the whole city, especially the keep. He was pleased to see Mikkel and Vega present, in addition to Hector. The young Boarlord had been working hard to prove himself, seemingly recovered from a recent illness. Bergan knew the lad wanted to right his wrongs, the shame clearly visible on his washed-out face. A part of the Bearlord regretted punishing Hector so harshly, seeing how much weight the youth had lost, but this was pushed aside by his greater feelings of relief. Relief that they’d stopped Hector before it was too late.

  Magistery was an ancient art and the responsibili
ty that went with it immense. A great deal of a magister’s work involved knowledge and healing. It was typical that Hector should have wandered off the lawful path to investigate necromancy. The late Baron Huth had schooled Hector in healing, but the old magicks of Vankaskan had played their part in his education too. True, the communing had provided the answers they needed to rescue Gretchen. But at what cost to Hector? Time would tell.

  ‘It’s good you’re all here,’ said Bergan, shaking hands with each of them. He gripped Hector’s leather gloved hand, giving it a hearty squeeze. ‘I’m especially pleased to see you here, son. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine thank you, my lord. It’s good to be up and about once more.’

  It had been a peculiar time for all the Werelords since the disappearance of Whitley and Drew. Bergan had decided that silence was the best policy regarding the missing pair. Knowledge of their leaving was carefully guarded – if the people of Westland discovered that Drew was missing before he’d even been crowned there’d be uproar. Instead, the Werelords let the people believe Drew was still in residence at Buck House under heavy guard. After the attack on Manfred and Kohl it was hardly surprising that he wouldn’t be appearing in public.

  After Hector had been removed, the Wolf’s Council had sent Broghan after Drew and Whitley. He was a good leader and it was his sister who’d gone missing, so Bergan couldn’t imagine anyone better to be charged with the task of bringing her safely home. He took six of Brackenholme’s best branches, with Captain Harker as second in command. As one Werelord left another arrived – Vincent of Redmire, Hector’s twin, had moved into Bevan’s Tower, alongside Hector. But soon after his appearance Hector had been found wandering the streets, fevered. Mikkel had Hector moved to Buck House where his staff could nurse him alongside the recuperating Duke Manfred.

  Bergan wasn’t sure it was coincidence, Hector falling ill as his brother arrived. The arrogant Vincent had big plans for Redmire, informing the Wolf’s Council of his intentions straight away. He wanted his father’s title and throne. One could understand his reasoning. Hector was a magister, not a leader of men. He lacked the charisma of a ruler, making an unlikely baron in Bergan’s eyes. But Bergan struggled to imagine Vincent taking power. There was something about him that raised the Bearlord’s hackles.