‘I need to make sure my people are safe.’
‘Then send another messenger, but don’t leave on the off-chance that there’s a threat. Leopold can rage to his heart’s content in the keep – he’s going nowhere. And nobody has come to his aid.’
‘Nobody’s come to his aid … yet,’ corrected Mikkel.
Bergan threw his hands in the air.
‘I give up! Go to Stormdale then, ready your army against an imagined foe. Leave us in a weakened state. But let your brother stay here. Don’t drag him across Lyssia in such a fragile state.’
Mikkel sneered. Vega watched him, waiting for him to say something else provocative. He wasn’t fond of Mikkel, but he respected him. However, it was clear Mikkel wasn’t thinking rationally. If the captain of the Maelstrom was ever going to get involved, now was the time.
‘I’ve a few words to say on this matter, and then you’ll see my cape disappear out of the door.’
The Werelords turned, eager to hear what he had to say.
‘Exciting, isn’t it, all this?’ he smiled. Bergan glowered. Vega continued.
‘I’ve taken my fleet out to sea. We’ve seen nothing alarming. However, sailors are superstitious. They’ve been telling me of the dark omens they’re seeing: gulls flying low, blood red skies in the east, dead fish in the nets; I’m not so ignorant as to ignore them. A lifetime at sea teaches a man – and a therian – to respect the old ways. Something’s coming.
‘I don’t know whether leaving is wise; couldn’t say. But I agree with Bergan: dragging a sick Manfred to the Barebones is sheer folly. Leave him in the care of his healers here Mikkel, and as soon as he’s fit enough to travel he can decide for himself what he wants to do.’
Bergan and Mikkel stared at one another. Bergan held his hand out, waiting for Mikkel to take it. They joined palms, shaking their agreement.
‘As soon as he’s fit to travel?’
‘As soon as,’ nodded Bergan. ‘I really can’t persuade you to stay? Must you leave in the middle of the night?’
Mikkel nodded, immovable in his will.
‘I’ve let the grass grow beneath my hooves for too long. War is coming. I can smell it on the wind.’
‘Then Brenn be with you, brother,’ said Bergan, hugging Mikkel.
‘And with you.’
Vega rolled his eyes. What a bunch of tender-hearts!
‘Sorry to spoil your moment, children, but I’ve someone to find. I haven’t seen Hector for days. I don’t know about you but I’m concerned.’
‘The boy still isn’t right,’ said Mikkel, picking up his grey cloak. ‘He’s not been the same since his tomfoolery in the Pits.’
‘He needs company,’ said Bergan. ‘Hiding away in Bevan Tower like that. I’m not sure Vincent’s the right fellow to be looking after him, either.’
You don’t know the half of it, thought Vega.
‘My feelings exactly. So if you’ll excuse me,’ said Vega, bowing in his typically flamboyant manner, ‘I must away.’
Vega didn’t wait for further goodbyes. He bounded down the steps of Traitors’ House, three at a time. He was concerned about the young Boarlord. Hector had been in pieces the previous week when he’d last seen him, and Vega had no trouble recognizing a bully when he saw one. Vincent was menacing his twin, pushing the young magister until he got what he wanted: the throne of Redmire. Hector was losing his mind, fearing what his brother might do next. There was something distinctly wicked about Vincent, and Vega wasn’t sure how low he’d stoop in order to get what he wanted.
Hector blinked, trying to see through the mist as the dark water slapped around his waist. He was naked, cold and didn’t know where he was. He could feel the mud sucking and shifting beneath his feet as he tried to stay upright, like sands shifting in a tide although the pool’s surface was still. He could see no bank, no matter in which direction he looked. All he could see was the black water and the dirty yellow mist. The air had a familiar, pungent smell to it. Sulphur. He ran his hands through the water, feeling a resistance like oil. He struggled to keep his rising panic down.
He didn’t know this place, and it scared the life out of him.
How did I get here? Why am I here? He took a step forward and felt something move under his foot. Something beneath the sand. Next he felt something brush his ankle, beneath the black water. Something sharp scratched at his skin, like a trailing claw or tooth. He spun, splashing.
‘Where am I?’ he screamed, looking up as the sulphurous mist thickened. He wiped his eyes with his left hand as he tried to keep his balance with his right. The yellow cloud was choking him, causing him to splutter and wheeze. There were more motions beneath the surface, something moving between his legs, jostling him. His eyes were hot, stinging. As his vision cleared he looked at the palm of his hand. The black spot that marked the centre of his palm was growing rapidly, spreading, spilling over his skin like ink tipped from a pot. In seconds his fingers were black and the darkness was spreading up his arm.
‘No!’ he yelled, plunging his arm into the water as if removing it from sight might make the darkness go away. But the moment it disappeared below the surface he felt a cold, dead hand grasp it. Hard. He tugged back, trying to release himself.
‘Let go!’ he cried, but there was no release. He felt something scurrying up his bare back; a long, shadowy hand, snaking out of the black water. Viles! The hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him slowly down towards the water. He tried to pound it off with his right hand, but couldn’t make it release its grip. The hand below the surface continued to drag him down, his chin getting closer to the black liquid.
‘Please!’ he begged, as more hands appeared around him, taking hold where they could. His throat, his jaw, his chest; the fingers gripped all over, digging in as they dragged him down, down, into the black water. He opened his mouth for one final cry, but never made it, the black water rushing over his scream and racing down his throat, as cold as death itself.
Hector rose, crying out, gasping for air and reaching for the ceiling. His hair clung to his face, dripping with sweat. The bedsheets were soaking, stuck to his warm, damp skin. It took him a moment to realize that, firstly (and most importantly), he was still alive and, secondly, he was in his bedroom in Bevan’s Tower. His throat was dry and sore. He must have been screaming while he slept, his nightmare intruding on the real world. His eyes searched his darkened room, looking for viles. They were everywhere, always watching, waiting to torment him. Then he saw the shape sitting on the bed. A large, dark shape.
‘Get away, demon!’
‘Is that any way to speak to your brother?’
Hector’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. It was indeed Vincent, legs crossed neatly and arms folded on his lap. There was no sign of Mutt, the faithful little dog Hector had befriended. The stray had taken to sleeping on the foot of the bed, but had clearly been scared off by Hector’s twin brother.
‘What time is it?’ asked Hector.
‘Late,’ replied his brother, rising. His movements were slow, purposeful. ‘More nightmares?’
Hector didn’t reply. His brother had returned each night since his ultimatum, though Hector hid away to avoid contact with him. He’d kept the room locked, but a glance past Vincent revealed an open doorway and a broken lock. He’d forced his way in. Tonight of all nights.
‘I couldn’t help but hear from downstairs. Awful racket. I was worried for your safety. And sanity.’
Hector looked at his sheets. The bed was soaking, his skin freezing. The fever still wouldn’t relinquish its grip. He couldn’t find his pillow. He looked back to Vincent suddenly.
Vincent held the pillow above him. For the last week, each night he’d tormented Hector, reminding him of how embarrassing he was to their household, their father’s memory and the people of Redmire. Each night he’d reminded him that his time was running out. The words of his ultimatum still haunted Hector’s thoughts:
‘No more sleeps.’
Vincent squeezed the pillow. He plumped it, punching it with his balled fist, smiling at Hector. Hector’s body trembled, his shivers revealing just how scared he was. Suddenly, Vincent was over him, the pillow inches from Hector’s face.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Hector? You look so … nervous!’
Hector’s wide eyes stared at the pillow. Vincent craned closer, the pillow descending.
‘Do you want your pillow?’
Hector wanted to cry out but was paralysed with fear. Vincent had told him he’d have Redmire one way or the other. Nothing would stand in his way.
‘Please, Vincent. I beg you, don’t!’
‘Don’t what?’ hissed Vincent
‘The pillow. Please don’t!’
Vincent sat upright suddenly.
‘This?’ he said, pointing to the sodden bundle of feathers and cotton. ‘You thought I meant to suffocate you?’
Vincent laughed, flinging the pillow on to the bed. Hector didn’t join in, still fearful for his life. Vincent clapped his hands, shaking his head and wiping away tears.
‘Oh that’s a good one, Hector. That is amusing!’
Vincent stopped laughing. He moved fast, hands open, then closing swiftly round his brother’s throat. Hector’s eyes bulged as he felt the grip tighten.
‘If I were to kill you, brother, I wouldn’t use some filthy pillow. I’d want to be sure. I’d want to see your face. I’d do it with these …’ A squeeze. ‘Two …’ Another squeeze. ‘Hands!’
Hector’s legs kicked into action, his knees connecting with Vincent’s elbows and dislodging his grip. Hector rolled off the bed in his drenched nightshirt, landing on his discarded clothes. He fumbled among them, gasping for breath. Vincent laughed.
‘Come come, brother, I was just playing a game. Let me help you get up.’
Vincent reached to grab at Hector who was scrambling through his belongings. The magister spun round, holding a blade up defensively in his trembling hands. Vincent took a step back, warily, before bursting into another chorus of laughter.
‘That? What are you going to do? Tickle me with it?’
Hector held his gaudy jewelled dagger up, handle close to his chest, the blade pointing outwards. It was decorative; there was nothing practical about it. The jewels would bite into the holder’s grip if one used it in earnest. It would probably do the wielder more damage than an intended target. Hector started to circle round his brother, making for the door. He saw a small shape on the floor, the outline unmistakably that of Mutt. The little stray could have been sleeping, but Hector knew better: the dog was dead.
‘Please, Vincent,’ he mumbled, mucus and tears mingling over his trembling lips. ‘I’ll go first thing in the morning. I’ll tell Bergan, I’ll tell them all. Everything’s yours. I want none of it. But please, no more.’
Vincent’s face contorted as he followed Hector, the magister stumbling as he backed into the corridor. The torches from the hall below illuminated the stairwell, throwing light up to the top floor of Bevan’s Tower.
‘I’ve given you so many chances and you’ve refused them, like the stubborn fat little pig you are. I’ve waited long enough, Hector. I’ll take the throne tonight.’
‘Tomorrow,’ begged Hector. He shuffled back down the corridor, following the old tattered rug towards the landing and staircase. ‘Don’t do this, Vincent. On my life I promise, it’s all yours. First thing in the morning, I’ll do it.’
‘You’ve said this before and you’ve lied each time …’
‘I’ve been so sick, Vincent. So very ill. Tomorrow, I’ll do it, I promise.’
Vincent advanced slowly, shaking his head as he followed him down the corridor. Hector could hardly see him. Vincent was a teary blur as he shivered and stumbled, nearing the balcony that overlooked the entrance hall two floors below.
How he wished his friend was here now. How he longed to see Drew again, the one fellow who felt like a true brother to Hector. He cried aloud as he thought of him, wailed as he realized he’d never see his friend again. He prayed to Brenn that Drew was safe, that he would find Gretchen. He felt his back bump into the stone banister as he came to the end of the old rug. He glanced down.
The figures of Ringlin and Ibal looked up from below, waiting expectantly. Through his tears, Hector saw the tall one wave, as a friend might to a passing acquaintance in the street. Hector turned back to Vincent.
‘Drop your toy dagger, brother. It won’t help you now. I wonder what they’ll say? Everyone knows you’ve been poorly, sick in the head. Goodness, what else would explain your interfering with the dead? Nobody would blame you if you ended it all. Nobody would even miss you.’
‘That’s not true! I have friends!’
‘The members of your precious Wolf’s Council?’
‘Not them,’ whispered Hector, swaying against the banister. He lowered the dagger to his side, resigned to his fate.
‘Who then, the Wolf? Where is he now? Chasing across Lyssia after one of his real friends. No, Hector, you have nobody. You’re nobody. You won’t be missed.’
Vincent strode forward, his arms up, palms open, prepared for the final shove.
‘No more sleeps.’
Vincent was a couple of steps from Hector when his leading foot caught the curled up edge of the long, frayed rug that ran down the corridor. It propelled Vincent into a stumble, arms flailing as he lurched forward. Instinctively, Hector brought his hands up to catch his brother, forgetting the other’s wicked intentions for a split second. In that moment they were just two siblings again, one falling while the other tried to catch him.
The two collided on the banister in an embrace, Vincent’s arms round Hector.
The doors of Bevan’s Tower swung open suddenly as Count Vega ran in unannounced. Ringlin and Ibal turned to him quickly at the foot of the staircase, hands moving to their weapons. Vega’s cutlass flew gracefully from its scabbard, but the Sharklord followed the gaze of the two rogues back to the drama high above.
Vincent and Hector looked into one another’s eyes, their faces almost touching. There were mirrored, twin expressions of surprise and horror. They slowly pulled themselves apart, Vincent wheezing and snorting, spit dribbling from his mouth as he looked down. Hector mouthed the word ‘no’ repeatedly, but nothing came out. They both stared down.
Hector’s fist was flush with Vincent’s left breast, the hilt of his gaudy dagger flat against his brother’s chest. The knife wasn’t silver but the injury was massive; a sword didn’t have to be silver to slay a Werelord. No therianthropic healing could reattach a severed head, and little could be done for this wound. The blade was buried deep within Vincent’s heart, having found a clean and uninterrupted route between the Boarlord’s ribs. Their eyes met once more, tears welling as brother looked upon brother. Hector’s hopes for forgiveness were dashed as Vincent’s face contorted into an expression of rage and hate. He tried to speak, mouthing obscenities and curses, but he too was dumbstruck.
Vincent’s hands clawed Hector’s face, tusks jutting from his jaws as dark brown hairs struggled to emerge from his face. He squealed and grunted, scraping at Hector’s crying eyes with darkening fingers. The onlookers below watched as Vincent leaned further back over the balcony. Hector could hold him no longer, and released his grip.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Please forgive me, brother …’
As Vincent toppled over the banister, Hector could see his mouth contorting as he found his voice in the final moment.
‘Never.’
Hector leaned over to watch his twin’s descent, as Vega, Ringling and Ibal all stepped back. Vincent landed head first on the mosaic tiled floor below with a sickening crunch. Vega staggered forward, disbelieving as he stared at the grisly sight of the dead Boarlord. He looked up and saw Hector, leaning against the banister, dangerously close to following his brother over the edge. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Vincent’s two henchmen disappearing out of the door, fleeing fro
m the scene of their master’s death. Vega ran up the staircase towards his young friend, hoping to get to him before he did something foolish.
Hector stared at Vincent’s broken body, limbs twisted into impossible positions, a dark pool spreading round him where he’d hit the ground. The tall stairwell seemed to be rotating, spinning, as his head thundered. He could feel he was slipping towards unconsciousness. A fall, yes. That would do it. They’d understand. Before the darkness came he saw the viles creeping out of the shadows below, long black claws pawing at Vincent’s corpse.
No more sleeps.
Then darkness.
1
An Open Heart
The men of Brackenholme lay round their campfires, settling down for the night while a handful remained on watch. Two of the Greencloaks had been killed in the battle of Haggard, and the rangers had delayed their departure from the City of the Ram to bury their fallen. Each man shared the grief, as the bond between the men of the Woodland Watch was like that of brothers. The mood was sombre and reflective, with talk brief and to the point. But by the fire at the centre of the camp, one group were deep in conversation, their mood anything but subdued.
‘You should have waited,’said Lord Broghan, pointing an accusing finger across the fire towards Drew. The young Wolf shook his head.
‘I can see we’re never going to agree on this, Broghan, so I suggest we cease talking about it.’
‘You acted recklessly, Drew, without the permission of the Wolf’s Council.’
‘I don’t need the permission of anyone! If I want to rescue my friend, I shall, and nobody can stop me. I’ll do what I like, thank you very much, Broghan.’ He pointed north. ‘Highcliff doesn’t command me. Nobody does. I’m a free man.’
‘A free man?’ laughed Broghan. ‘Drew, wake up! You’re the most important and potentially powerful Werelord in Lyssia!’
‘Brother, keep your voice down,’ said Whitley from where she sat beside him. ‘The men are trying to sleep.’ Behind her, wrapped up in his bedroll, Baron Ewan slept, his snores punctuating their discussion.
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