Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘It’s good to see him, isn’t it?’ said Mikkel to the council, patting Hector’s back. ‘Maybe I can have my house back soon, eh?’ He gave the magister a playful dig, but Hector merely smiled wanly.

  ‘Leave the boy alone, Mikkel,’ sighed Vega. ‘The last thing he needs is your gurning face knocking him sick again.’

  ‘How’s your brother?’ Bergan asked Hector, cutting to the chase.

  ‘I haven’t seen him,’ said the Boarlord. He was still pale and looked sickly. ‘Not since my … incident. He hasn’t been to see me, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I was just wondering if you’d been back to Bevan’s Tower yet. He’ll be making that place his home if you’re not careful!’

  Bergan only half joked; Vincent had informed the higher social echelons of Highcliff that he’d be in the city for a while. But Bergan wasn’t about to let Hector know about Vincent’s visit to the Wolf’s Council; it might tip him back over the edge. Vincent would no doubt have been making himself very comfortable in the tower.

  ‘Has he been to see you?’ asked Hector, his voice shaky. Duke Bergan shrugged.

  ‘Only to congratulate everyone on the defeat of the Lion. He speaks on behalf of Redmire, Hector.’

  ‘Were you aware of this?’ added Mikkel. Hector shook his head, rubbing his gloved hands together as if fighting the chill. The young magister had taken to wearing black, as if in mourning, with only his brown woollen cloak of Redmire breaking the effect. It perplexed Bergan. It was the tail end of summer, yet Hector was dressed for winter. Perhaps the fever still gripped him.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ he muttered. ‘He wants Redmire for himself. I know I’m a magister; that is my calling. But by rights the throne is mine to give away, is it not?’ The others nodded. ‘So I think … it might be best if I keep hold of it for a while longer. Let things settle. For everyone’s sake …’

  Hector trailed off. The news must have irked him, reasoned Bergan. He’d have been furious if he were in Hector’s boots but then, Hector was no Bear.

  ‘Good idea,’ said the Bearlord. ‘It’s the wisest thing to do. Your father would approve.’

  Two soldiers of the Wolfguard appeared at the top of the staircase, one young and one old. They looked splendid, grey game pelts lining the edges of their black cloaks, the silver Wolfshead roaring on their black tabards. Bergan had been pleased to see many soldiers of the old Lionguard taking the oath. There had been many who’d asked to switch allegiance from the armies of Stormdale and Brackenholme, men who had once served under Wergar but had left when he was slain. This was their chance to return to the black and serve his son. The soldier who spoke was one such man, the white-haired Crombie.

  ‘Lord Protector, we have the prisoner you requested below.’ Crombie was the chief jailer at Traitors’ House, overseeing the release of prisoners. He also ensured that those who belonged there were cared for humanely.

  ‘Bring him up.’

  Crombie called his men and chains rattled as the prisoner was led up. Mikkel was glowering already, so Bergan gave him a nudge.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ grumbled the Staglord. ‘Of all the rogues we released from Traitors’ House, this is one villain we rightly kept in.’

  ‘Regardless, let’s keep this civil. We may need his help more than once before we’re done.’ He turned to Vega. ‘You’re sure he can help?’

  ‘There’s no harm in talking with him, is there?’

  The prisoner’s head emerged first, flanked by the Wolfguard. He was bald, the right side of his face heavily decorated with the tattoo of a sea serpent that coiled around his brow and cheekbone, its jaws opening round his mouth so its teeth closed round his. He smiled as he approached with small steady steps. Without the tattoo he might not have looked threatening, although the manacles round his throat, ankles and wrists told a different story. The guards were taking no risks; Bo Carver, Lord of the Thieves Guild, still had many friends in Highcliff.

  ‘Vega,’ he smiled. The guards let go, leaving him to stand alone as they stepped back.

  ‘How are you, Bo?’ said the sea marshal, breaking with etiquette and striding forward to grasp him by the hand. Carver laughed as Vega shook his wrist, the manacles jangling furiously. Mikkel looked outraged by the Wereshark’s behaviour, although Bergan was getting used to it.

  ‘You know Carver?’ spluttered Mikkel.

  ‘Indeed,’ laughed Vega. ‘This scoundrel and I used to sail together on the Harbinger, my father’s schooner. Only it turned out young Bo couldn’t cut it – jumped ship in Highcliff and made this place his home. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘I saw an opportunity, Vega. Like any good pirate would, I took it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bergan, cutting in at last. ‘As I recall you killed that old thief Gwillem in the docks. He was the boss of the Highcliff thieves, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You make it sound dirty. It was a fair fight, instigated by him I might add. With no leader for my brethren I stepped into the role, backed by a couple of influential supporters.’

  ‘I heard he died with a knife in his back,’ said Bergan.

  ‘Knife fights can end that way,’ replied Carver.

  ‘I’ve never known a man more deadly with a dagger,’ said Vega. ‘Are you still dangerous with a longknife?’

  ‘You still dangerous with that smart mouth?’ asked Carver.

  ‘And this murder made you the top thief in Highcliff?’ asked Mikkel, still clearly disgusted by Vega’s friendship with the rogue.

  ‘Lord of the Thieves Guild, if you please.’

  ‘You make it sound like a lawful organization! And you’re no lord for that matter!’

  ‘One doesn’t need animal blood coursing through his veins to be a lord, sir,’ said Carver, smiling slyly.

  Bergan placed a hand on the furious Mikkel’s shaking shoulder.

  ‘Enough,’ he barked. ‘This bickering gets us nowhere.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ replied Carver, smiling at Mikkel as the Staglord stepped down. Vega backed away now to stand with his therian brothers.

  ‘Do you know of any way into or out of Highcliff Keep?’

  The Werelords turned to Hector, surprised that the direct question had come from the young Boarlord. Hector’s cheeks were crimson and he looked like he was about to apologize. It was no longer his place to ask questions. Bergan spoke quickly.

  ‘You heard the Lord of Redmire, Carver,’ he said, deflecting attention from Hector. Bergan pointed at the castle. ‘The keep – are there hidden exits?’

  ‘You brought me all this way to ask me that?’ he said, his voice slightly incredulous.

  ‘Answer the question. No games.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘You’re in no position to barter,’ scoffed Bergan.

  ‘I’d say I am, actually,’ said Carver. ‘My life in Traitors’ House could certainly be more comfortable. Am I really likely to escape? Is there a need for these chains?’

  ‘You killed a guard two years ago.’

  ‘Ah,’ qualified the prisoner, raising his manacled hands to waggle a finger. ‘I killed a Lionguard, a real bully too. They don’t count.’

  Bergan caught sight of Vega smiling as he strode up to the thief. The top of Carver’s head reached just below Bergan’s beard and his chest was as wide as the thief’s shoulders. Carver found himself eclipsed by shadow; his confidence wavered.

  ‘Answer my question and I’ll consider moving you to more comfortable quarters.’

  Carver peered round Bergan to look at his old friend Vega.

  ‘Is that the best offer I’m getting?’

  The captain of the Maelstrom nodded, his face now serious. Carver pulled back.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he said, holding a chained open palm up. Bergan placed his huge hand round the thief’s, sealing the deal.

  ‘The Cold Coast wasn’t always cold,’ said Carver. ‘From Highcliff up to Vermire and beyond, this land was forged by volcanoes thousands of years ago.
The Fiery Coast it should have been named, so the men of the Whitepeaks say.’

  ‘You’re very learned for a thief,’ sniffed Mikkel.

  ‘You’re very ignorant for a lord.’

  Bergan growled to quiet the pair. Carver continued.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve always been interested in what’s under our feet; what lies beneath Highcliff. As Lord of the Thieves Guild I needed to know how to get in and out of places. Why else would you have brought me here today? The smiths of the Strakenberg, the mountain Icegarden sits upon, would tell you this far better than I. There are tunnels the whole length of the Cold Coast, formed from the lava flows that became Westland. There’s a world below you’ll never see – unless you look for it.’

  ‘So these tunnels,’ said Bergan. ‘They’re under Highcliff?’

  Carver nodded, animated now, talking about something that clearly excited him. Bergan was impressed. As thugs went Carver was very intelligent. This also made him dangerous.

  ‘Indeed. You’ll know about the sewers, mostly man-made, but some of their creators made use of the natural fissures in the rock. I used to have a map that showed every tunnel and cave system that the thieves ever charted.’

  ‘There’s one that leads into the castle?’ asked Mikkel, animosity replaced by curiosity.

  ‘Not that we ever found. There may well be a hidden path, but where, I couldn’t say.’

  Bergan stared at the man, assessing him.

  ‘He’s telling the truth,’ said the Bearlord.

  ‘Thank you,’ laughed Carver. ‘There may be a tunnel, but the Lion doesn’t know about it. If he did, he’d be gone by now, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Depends on whether he wants to surrender Highcliff. He fought hard for that crown and won’t give it up lightly.’

  Hector stepped forward. He’d been taking notes on what was discussed. He raised his quill tentatively.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, my lords. But if he does know of a way out of the castle – which he might not – then isn’t it possible that he’s sent for help?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Bergan. ‘But what allies does he have? Who can he turn to? It’d take a large bag of gold to persuade anyone to fight for him. He has no gold or friends any more.’

  ‘Still,’ said Vega hesitantly. ‘Perhaps I should send some patrols out into the White Sea.’

  ‘He watches the sea every morning,’ said Bergan.

  ‘Then I’ll send the fastest vessels we have. It’s scouting, that’s all. If Leopold has friends lurking out there in the ocean, I’ll be sure to find them.’ Vega clapped his hand into Carver’s. ‘Thanks for this, Bo. I’ll see about getting some wine and … treats delivered to you.’

  ‘A pardon wouldn’t go amiss,’ said Carver as the guards led him away.

  ‘One thing at a time, Carver,’ said Bergan. ‘The Wolf’s Council thanks you for your assistance.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ he called back, as he disappeared down the steps.

  ‘Where does this leave us?’ asked Bergan.

  ‘Still in the harbour,’ said Vega.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘While the game’s afoot, whatever it is, we’re moored up going nowhere. My sailors see dark omens everywhere, warning them that war comes. Something’s happening, and soon. We need to stay on our mettle.’

  ‘It’s good to hear you enthuse, Vega,’ said Bergan.

  ‘It’s good to have something to do,’ said the Pirate Prince. ‘Sitting in port for two months can bore a man to death.’ The Wereshark made his way to the stairs, thinking aloud. ‘Once the scout ships are gone, I’ll mobilize my fleet, if you can call it that. You might want to raise some taxes if you want a proper presence in the ocean. I could have rallied an armada from the Cluster Isles to put the navy here to shame, if Leopold hadn’t put that fat Kraken Ghul on my throne. Ramshackle is too kind a description for what currently sails in the name of Westland.’

  With that last comment the sea marshal disappeared, heels clicking rapidly down the wooden steps as he hurried to the Maelstrom.

  ‘He’s like a different man,’ grunted Mikkel. ‘I have to say I prefer this version.’

  ‘He’s has a strategy. Vega’s many things, but most of all he’s a man of action.’ Bergan turned to Hector, his quill still scribbling on parchment. Mikkel nodded to Bergan, prompting him.

  ‘Do you need help moving your personal effects back to Bevan’s Tower, Hector?’

  Hector’s quill nib nearly splintered. He was on edge, and Bergan didn’t like it. He knew brothers could fight, but was worried that this bad blood between the Boars ran deeper.

  ‘I can do it myself,’ said Hector, steeling himself. ‘I shouldn’t put this off any longer.’ He turned to Mikkel. ‘My lord, I’ll send a runner to fetch my belongings from Buck House. Thank you for the hospitality you’ve shown me while I convalesced. I shan’t forget your kindness.’

  Mikkel started to shake Hector’s hand and then embraced the young Boar. Bergan smiled. Mikkel could be an obstinate fool but deep down he was a warm-hearted fellow.

  ‘Brothers can fight, I know,’ Mikkel comforted Hector. ‘I’ve lost track of the number of times Manfred and I have locked antlers. I love my brother with all my heart, and knowing how gravely wounded he was … well, I’d give anything to take his place now. Once you’ve spoken with Vincent you’ll forget what you ever crossed words over.’

  Hector’s smile was strained.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, my lord. If you’ll excuse me?’

  Bergan could tell Hector’s voice lacked conviction. He alone accompanied the Boarlord to the staircase. He spoke to the young man in quiet tones.

  ‘If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Anything at all.’ He jabbed Hector’s shoulder with a finger.

  ‘I shall my lord,’ said the Magister. He rubbed his gloved hands together once more before trudging down the stairs of the Crow’s Nest.

  ‘What is it?’ said Mikkel.

  ‘I worry about what awaits him.’

  ‘Family affairs, Bergan,’ said the Staglord, leaning on the wooden balcony and staring out over the city. ‘Not our place to meddle – it’s for the brothers to sort out. Blood’s thicker than water and all that.’

  ‘It’s the blood I’m afraid of,’ said Bergan.

  2

  Sibling Rivalry

  Hector stood outside Bevan’s Tower, the brass key to the great door in his trembling grasp. He looked back through the gardens to the gate in the wall, which he’d deliberately left open. If he had a change of heart he could make a dash to the street. The gardens were badly overgrown after years of neglect, weeds choking the rosebushes, strangling the life out of them. Hector stroked his throat tentatively. People milled past in the street beyond the gate, oblivious to the Boarlord’s anxieties.

  He unlocked the door.

  The main hall had seen a great deal of recent activity. The dust sheets were gone, and the hall was transformed into a room for feasting once again, although it appeared that a debauched affair had already taken place. The remains of a banquet covered the great table and the floor was littered with half-eaten food, broken crockery and smashed glasses. A small stray dog lay beneath the table, gnawing on a discarded bone. Hector clapped his hands to shoo it away, but it growled, guarding its prize. Hector ignored it; he’d pick his moment for that little fight.

  It horrified Hector that Vincent could treat their home in such a manner. He glanced into the kitchen to find, once more, a room in disarray. Plates cluttered every surface and the door into the herb garden was wide open and swinging in the mid-morning breeze. That explained where their four-legged guest had come from.

  Hector cautiously went upstairs. When he got to the first floor, which Vincent had taken for himself, he took a moment to catch his breath before knocking at his twin’s door.

  ‘Vincent?’ he said, his voice cracking with nerves. The last time they’d spoken he’d scrambled away with a bloody brow and
a deathly fever. His head had mended but the fever still had its claws in him. He called once more and, when no reply came, turned the handle, swinging the door open and stepping into the room.

  The chambers looked like a paupers’ wash house, clothes heaped and draped across the floor and furniture. Once again the leftovers from various meals littered the room, leaving few areas where one could see the floor.

  ‘Vincent!’ Hector called, peering into the bathroom. A riot appeared to have taken place. The smell from the privy was awful. He backed out of the chambers.

  The second flight of stairs up to his own chambers took twice as long to climb as Hector pondered what awaited him. Sweat rolled down his face and he whipped the glove off his left hand to wipe it out of his eyes. He glanced at the black mark on his palm, shivering, before tugging his glove on again. He crept down the short corridor to the door, taking the handle and swinging it open.

  The party had visited every corner of Bevan’s Tower. Hector’s quilt had been kicked from the bed, the sheets beneath were soiled. His writing desk had been rifled through, paperwork and letters were torn and heaped about. Hector cursed; all his good work had been undone. Every corner had been desecrated, nothing was untouched.

  The locked drawers on the desk had been cracked open and the coins Hector kept in the bureau were gone. Vincent had thieved the money, leaving Hector penniless. His head suddenly snapped to attention.

  Hector dashed over to the wardrobe that dominated the inside wall of the room. Opening the door he felt around the base. His fingers found purchase round the loose board. Prising it up he moved it to one side. The brass box was still there. He felt his heart rate quicken. It was unspectacular looking, a foot long, with handles on either end. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, as if he were a villain carrying out some terrible deed. Perhaps I am, thought Hector.