Drew reached for his sword. One of the soldiers saw this, levelling his spear at Drew.
‘Unhand her!’ roared Drew, unable to contain himself a moment longer. His anger had got the better of him and he could feel the Wolf rising. Before he could give in to his lycanthropy the world turned. The horizon tilted dramatically as his horse reared and he began to tumble backwards, falling from the saddle. His body sped down, head first, towards the hard road. He might have cushioned himself from the fall if he’d been able to free himself from his saddle, but his feet remained fixed in the stirrups. The last thing he saw was the soldier’s spear, buried deep in the neck of his screaming mount, as the ground rushed up to meet him in a blinding, deafening crash.
A bucket of icy water in the face brought Drew’s rude awakening. Immediately he was scrambling backwards on the floor, temporarily blinded, as his bare back hit a cold stone wall.
‘Wake up, boy,’ barked a gravelly voice. Drew blinked, shaking the water from his face as he squinted around the chamber.
The tall, dark-skinned guard from the gate stood immediately above him, the empty bucket swinging in one hand, a torch brand in the other. Drew spotted the pommel of his own longsword, the Wolfshead bouncing against the soldier’s hip. It wasn’t the guard’s voice he had heard, though; that belonged to someone else. Behind the soldier Drew could see a railed partition, metal bars running from the jagged ceiling to the rough stone floor to provide one long communal prison cell. The whole chamber was some kind of natural cave, possibly situated directly beneath Haggard itself. A single barred door, now open, was the only exit. The only other light in the prison came from the torches that spluttered along the curving wall beyond, disappearing up a winding staircase. The huddled shapes of a great many other prisoners lined the back wall of the cavern. They all kept a respectful distance from Drew and his captor.
A short, broad-shouldered man crouched beside Drew, a bloody cloth in his hand. Drew knitted his brow, gasping as he felt torn skin pulling away from his skull. The man with the cloth shook his head from side to side, willing Drew not to struggle. He had bushy grey hair and a short beard, worn in the style of the men of the region. Below the man’s jaw Drew could make out a metal ring circling his throat. The guard threw the bucket to the floor with a clatter and stepped away to reveal another man standing in the darkened doorway.
‘The girl upstairs,’ said the man in the shadows, his voice rough as sandpaper. ‘Who is she and what ails her?’
Drew suddenly raised a hand to his constricted throat. His fingers brushed the cold metal ring there, lingering over the bolt that sealed it shut. No shape-shifting for me then, he realized. Unless I’m in a hurry to meet Brenn.
The man in the shadows nodded to the guard. The kick caught Drew square across the jaw, his head bouncing off the floor and his mouth filling with blood. The grey bearded man beside him reached forward with his bloody cloth to mop Drew’s face.
‘Leave him,’ barked the man at the door. ‘He has a tongue in his head. He’d better use it quickly before Djogo here cuts it out.’ The dark-skinned soldier grinned, patting the Wolfshead blade on his hip. Drew struggled to his knees.
‘I shall only speak with Baron Ewan,’ he spluttered. ‘Call off your dog and take me to him.’
‘You’ll only speak in the presence of the Ramlord, eh?’ said the gravel-voiced man. ‘Interesting.’
The speaker grunted, his face lost in shadow. He shook his head from one side to the other, the white hair on his head catching the torchlight. He snarled, teeth gnashing as his chest pumped and strained. His back arched, and his shoulders bulged within his robes. The stocky man who crouched beside Drew looked away. Only Drew and the brutal guard kept their eyes on the transformation. When the change was complete the Werelord’s head had slumped against his chest. Slowly he raised it. The silhouette of the horns was unmistakable as he took a cloven-hoofed step into the cell.
In his years of tending sheep Drew had faced down rams before and had never found them frightening, with or without their enormous horns. But Baron Ewan was more than a man, more than a ram. He was a Werelord, and a monstrous one at that. The cloven foot that stepped into the chamber was connected to a muscular grey leg that disappeared into his open red robes, dark shaggy wool hanging around his exposed midriff. His chest heaved with the effort of the change as he bent low to enter the cell, manoeuvring his horns through the doorway. One of the thick horns clanged against the metal bars, ringing dully like a mournful bell. His face was suddenly illuminated by the guard’s torch; long and grey, with a mop of wiry white hair that tumbled over his sloping brow. His teeth were yellowed and cracked, grating against one another as he turned his lips, preparing to speak. Most frightful of all were the eyes; globs of dirty gold bulging from the sides of his face, pupils splitting the eyes like rectangles of jet.
‘Speak!’ spat the Werelord as he towered over Drew. The young Werewolf could hardly breathe. Leopold, Vanmorten, Vala – all the monsters he’d faced had been terrifying. But the Ram looked like a demon. Drew struggled to find words.
‘Whitley,’ he said quickly. ‘She’s Whitley, Lady of Brackenholme. Duke Bergan’s daughter. She said you were a friend of the Bearlord.’ His words were out before he’d considered them, such was his desire not to anger the Ramlord further. He only just managed to stay his tongue and keep his own identity secret. The bearded man by Drew’s side looked up at mention of Whitley and Bergan, glancing wide-eyed from Drew to the monster.
‘A Werelady; here, in Haggard?’ growled the beast. ‘And a valuable one at that! Good fortune just falls into my lap, does it not, dear Ewan?’ The Werelord reached down and patted the crouching old man on his head. Drew looked at him, struggling to comprehend.
‘Leave the boy, Ewan,’ added the towering Werelord, leaving the cell. ‘He’s worth nothing to me. The girl on the other hand …’
Drew’s head was spinning. If the short, grey-haired man who’d cleaned his wound was Ewan … then who was this monster, commanding the Lord of Haggard? The horned therianthrope stood outside the cell and stroked the long white hair that curled down from the end of his chin.
‘Lady Whitley,’ he chortled, his laugh rattling like a bag of stones. ‘I witnessed her birth before Bergan chased me out of Brackenholme. I really should become reacquainted with her.’ He looked back at the crouching Ewan. ‘Come along, Sheep: this scout is insignificant! I’ve an investment that requires your attention upstairs.’
Ewan struggled to his feet and followed the Werelord out of the chamber. Last to leave the room was the guard, who bent low to offer a word of warning to Drew before leaving.
‘I’m watching you, boy,’ he said. ‘No silly ideas, or it’ll be more than your tongue I cut off, right?’
The guard closed the door, rattling the heavy key in the lock as the Werelord and his companions made for the stairs. Drew scrambled up, finding courage as the entourage departed.
‘If that’s Baron Ewan,’ called Drew, pointing at the short, bearded man. ‘Then who the devil are you?’
The Werelord stopped. He turned to look at Drew with those demonic eyes, leaning against the bars to let his long curled horns scrape along their length. The sound was like knives against slate.
‘I’m Count Kesslar, boy,’ he replied. ‘Goatlord of Haggard, dealer in blood, flesh and bone and rightful Lord of all the Longridings.’ He smiled, revealing his broken yellow teeth as Drew felt the fear wash over him once more. A foul golden eye winked at him.
‘But devil will do just fine.’
4
The Goats and the Rams
There were few places as miserable as the cavern below Haggard. Many centuries ago the caves had been used by the Ramlords to store their ill-gotten gains. The Werelords of Haggard hadn’t always been peaceful, taking to the seas in more violent times to raid their neighbours and seafarers. That was the way in the Old Age, Werelord battling Werelord. With the dawning of the New Age a more enlightened app
roach was embraced by Lyssia’s therianthropes, with only a few still clinging to the older, savage ways. The caverns of Haggard had been transformed into grain stores. The prison bars were a recent modification added by the castle’s current custodian.
Kesslar was a confident beast. He hadn’t bothered to post guards in the jail, instead leaving the captives to their own devices. The locked door was immovable, so the only way out would be with the key. Of the hundred prisoners, seventy or so were locals – fishermen, farmers and tradesmen – the fittest men and women of Haggard. The remaining thirty were what remained of Haggard’s regular army. In among these survivors sat three therian nobles. News of Drew’s true identity had been very well received.
Lord Dorn sat staring quietly at Drew and Baron Ewan as they spoke in whispers. Dorn was the son of Duke Brand, the Bull of Calico, and he was every bit the giant his father had been. Broad-shouldered with the build of a grown man, it was hard to believe he was the same age as Drew. The young Bull had been sent to study under Ewan. In return, Ewan’s son, Eben, lodged with Brand as his ward. The relationship was beneficial to both noble houses, each Werelord treating the other’s son as their own.
‘It’s a blessing Eben isn’t here to witness this,’ Ewan said, looking up at the ceiling. ‘I should have buried this cursed room years ago. I’m sorry you paid a visit to my spoiled city, Drew. You’d probably be in Cape Gala by now if you hadn’t have made this excursion.’
‘I’d have been dragging Whitley’s corpse behind me if I had. We came here so you could heal her. Certainly, we’ve run into some other … difficulties, but my friend will live, my lord, thanks to you.’
Ewan waved Drew’s praises away.
‘It’s what I do.’
‘So, you’re a magister?’ asked Drew. ‘My friend Hector, Baron Huth’s son – he’s one, and a talented healer.’
‘I’m a magister of sorts, although I lost my way a long time ago. I was never one for sitting in a stuffy library behind a mountain of books. I wanted to see the world. I quit my studies and adventured – the only thing that stayed with me was herb lore. I joined up with your father on many campaigns, travelling alongside him all over Lyssia. I got my sword wet, but for the most part my journey was one of peace. I gathered healing practices wherever I went, cataloguing them. By the time I returned to Haggard, I’d a reputation as a great healer. Can’t shake it off, no matter how many folks I poison!’
Drew liked the Ramlord a lot. It hadn’t taken him long to reveal his identity to Ewan; Drew was a fine judge of character and the Ram didn’t disappoint him. He was relieved to hear that Whitley had responded well to Ewan’s medicines. She was on the mend and would be walking again within the day.
‘Again, I offer you my profound thanks for healing Whitley,’ said Drew earnestly.
‘I can only partly accept your thanks, Drew. It seems the union of my drugs and her therian healing has accelerated her recovery at a rate faster than I’d have expected. How did you say she came by the injury?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Drew, shivering at the memory. Ewan leaned in, expecting to hear more.
Drew continued.
‘We were attacked off the Talstaff Road by a man. Only, and this will sound crazy, I know … he was dead.’
Ewan didn’t look at all surprised, instead nodding sagely and stroking his beard.
‘I’d recognize necromancy anywhere. There was an evil to that wound, something unnatural and wicked. I hope there are no lasting after-effects from her carrying such a foul bite for so long. She’s clear of it now, but one has to be very careful when dealing with dark magicks.’
Drew nodded, but remained silent. He wanted to say something about Hector, but thought better of it. His friend had suffered so much through the ritual of communing and speaking with the dead, and although Ewan seemed to know about the dark magicks, it didn’t seem right to discuss Hector’s personal business with the Ramlord. He returned the subject to Whitley.
‘And she’s responding well to conversation?’ Drew asked.
‘Responding? She won’t stop asking questions. No, there’s nothing wrong with her that a bit of sleep won’t cure now. I’ve told her what’s happened to you, and she knows all about Kesslar. She needs to rest now – there’s really nothing she can do. Kesslar will be questioning her in the morning.’
Drew prayed that the Goatlord would treat her with respect but feared the worst.
‘What’s he going to do with us?’ asked Drew wearily.
‘Kesslar’s ship, the Banshee, was due in last night.’ Ewan pointed towards a tunnel beyond the bars. ‘He’ll march you to the harbour and then take you with him to Brenn-knows-where. He’s taking me as his personal physician. I’m spared the hold, I’m told. You’ll be thrown in with the others – he may have special plans for Dorn …’
The young Bull looked on, his large brown eyes emotionless.
‘What special plans?’ asked Drew.
‘Kesslar’s a slave trader, Drew. He picks up people from across Lyssia, transporting them overseas. Nobody knows who he trades with – some say it’s the Catlords of Bast. But he’s spoken of an arena called the Furnace on more than one occasion, gloating about what a spectacle Dorn will provide for his friends.’
‘Arena?’
‘He wants me to fight,’ said Dorn quietly. Drew was surprised by his soft, honey-toned voice. ‘I’ll give him a show all right. The minute they take this collar off I’ll gore him a new hole.’
Drew had no trouble believing this – even in human form the Bull-lord was the image of the perfect athlete; tall, muscular and deadly.
‘Of course,’ said Dorn. ‘If he knew what you were, he’d probably ship you off in your own boat, guarded by twenty of his best. Your value to a skin-trader would be immeasurable. Keep silent on that score, Drew.’
If Kesslar was in the habit of making a spectacle out of a Werelord, then Dorn was right. Imagine the fee he could demand for the last of the Wolves – the rightful king of Westland.
‘If Kesslar’s such a despicable man – why did you let him into the city?’
‘Haggard’s a peaceful place these days,’ said Ewan. ‘It’s more a town than the once splendid city it used to be. My guards stand on the gates counting the grain wagons that roll in and out. We have nothing worth thieving here. Little did I realize that my people were the very thing he intended to steal.’
Ewan’s head fell to his chest and Dorn continued the story for him.
‘Haggard used to be a shared seat of governance, Drew. The Goats and Rams worked together as one – after all, theirs is a kindred heritage. Kesslar’s older than Baron Ewan by twenty or so years – by the time Ewan took his title he was the junior partner in Haggard. The city was Kesslar’s.’
‘Haggard was never enough for the Goat, though. His aspirations took him further afield: Highcliff, Brackenholme, even Icegarden in the frozen north. And in every city he visited, he left betrayal in his wake.’
Ewan, having regained his composure, picked up the tale again.
‘Wealth is everything to Kesslar. With wealth comes power and swords. He corrupted and conned Werelords across Lyssia and fled before he answered for his crimes. Haggard is just a port of call. He’s stripped it of all its worth and now he’ll move on.’
‘But how did he get into the city? You must have had some clue he was coming?’
‘He knew about this cavern, and the way to it from Haggard’s Bay below.’
‘They came in the night,’ said Dorn. ‘Slipped through the tunnels and up into the castle. The garrison didn’t know what hit them, and how could they?’ The Bull craned his head towards Ewan, catching the old Ram’s eye. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself, uncle.’
Drew looked around the chamber. Those prisoners who were still awake regarded the Werelords with sad and weary eyes. They were broken men, their pride and lives taken when the Goat had stormed their home.
‘None of you should feel any shame!’ he said, lo
ud enough that anyone who was awake might hear his voice, but not so loud to alert the guards upstairs. ‘These cowards who’ve taken your city – if they’d faced the men of Haggard head-on I don’t doubt for a second you’d have given them a fight they’d remember until the end of their days, if they survived it.’
He noticed the men rising where they sat, raising their heads, patting one another’s backs. Wives rubbed their husband’s shoulders, squeezing them with love and reassurance. The people of Haggard embraced. Drew’s blood was up, thinking about these poor unfortunates, buried beneath their city, destined to be shipped a world away. He stood tall making sure he caught the eyes of his fellow prisoners, nodding to anyone who looked back, letting them know they had his respect.
‘He could do that, too,’ whispered Ewan.
‘Who?’
‘Wergar. He could inspire men. You’re a good man, Drew. I wish we’d met in happier times.’
‘I’m nothing like Wergar,’ said Drew, suddenly reminded of who he really was. It was all well and good speaking to these prisoners and giving them back some dignity, but who was he at the end of the day? He was still just a farmer’s boy from the Cold Coast. His bluster and bravado ebbed away.
‘You obviously never met him, that much is clear,’ smiled Ewan. ‘Sure, he was a bigger man, and he had a voice like rough gravel, but he could move men with his words. You have that gift too.’
‘I have a curse, my lord, that’s all it is to me. I never asked to be born the son of Wergar.’
‘Well who in Lyssia does get to choose who their parents are?’ laughed Ewan. ‘You are what you are, Drew. You can’t run from it. You should be proud of your heritage, young man.’
Oh, if you only knew what I think of my heritage, Baron Ewan, thought Drew, settling once more on the cold floor. He wanted to run from that heritage. He wanted to run and never look back.
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