‘Still getting others to fight your battles, Lucas?’
The young Lion moved fast, snarling as he struck Broghan across the face with his fist. The Bearlord spat a glob of blood on to the floor, narrowly missing the Lion’s boot.
‘Kitten’s got claws after all then …’
Broghan’s eyes took in the chamber. He was standing on a platform at one of the higher points of the huge circular room. The wall he was chained to was beside a broad balcony that overlooked the city beyond. Gathered in the chamber below were the various Werelords of the region, all watching as the Lionlord strutted across the platform. Viscount Colt stood at the shoulder of Duke Lorimer, their brother Horselords standing around them. By the looks on their faces, there was little approval for Lucas’s antics. Lord Conrad, the young blond noble, stood apart from the others, his own eyes trained on another captive in the room. Lady Gretchen stood on the opposite side of the chamber from Broghan on another raised platform, staring at him fearfully, a pair of red-cloaked Lionguards keeping watch over her. The Wererat Vankaskan stood beside her, grinning wickedly. There was no sign of Harker. And where was Drew? Where was Whitley?
Broghan’s mind was addled. He recalled confronting Duke Lorimer upon his arrival and seeking the support of the Horselords, but after that his recollections blurred. He’d struggled to keep the Bear at bay, passing out with exhaustion. Harker had taken him to a guest chamber and that was all he remembered. He’d woken up to a nightmare.
‘Where is the Wolf?’ roared Lucas.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Bear! My men encountered him in the city. He caused a good deal of distress, especially to poor Colbard here.’
Lucas gestured to the big northman who rubbed his injured arm as if to stress the point.
Broghan laughed. Well done, Drew.
‘Silence!’ Lucas backhanded the Bearlord across the face.
‘Prince Lucas,’ cried out Lorimer below. ‘Please be gentle with Lord Broghan. Remember, he is a brother Werelord, Your Highness.’
‘Don’t call him that!’ shouted Broghan. ‘There’s nothing royal about this brat. He’s a puppet, to his father and the rats. Have you taken leave of your senses, Lorimer, siding with these villains?’
Lucas moved to strike Broghan once again, but two of the Horseguard on the platform moved to stand in his way. The prince relented, but his look of hatred didn’t change. He stepped back, joining the bald northman who had meted out the punches.
‘I take no pleasure in hosting any of you in Cape Gala,’ said Lorimer, his voice breaking.
‘Hosting?’ Broghan laughed incredulously, rattling the chain.
‘You have to understand, Lord Broghan. My fellow Horselords and I have granted Prince Lucas shelter in return for his father’s blessing. Independence is what we seek, not bloodshed.’
‘Yet you side with a deposed king and his insane son? This is madness! You should be speaking with my father and the Staglords, working towards a better future for all.’
‘A free Longridings is a better future, certainly for all in Cape Gala,’ cried the elderly Viscount Colt, stepping out from behind the shadow of Lorimer. ‘Westland gives us nothing.’
‘You’re wrong, Colt! Leopold has given you nothing – things can be different with the Wolf on the throne!’
‘Enough,’ said Lucas. ‘The time for debate has passed, Bear. I’ve given our host my word that I shall spare your life as long as he is Lord of the Longridings. Contrary to what you may think, I’m a man of my word.’
‘You’re a child and a fool. You should have fled when you had the chance. My father and his allies won’t stand for this. Lyssia shall not stand for this. You’ve missed your boat to Bast, cat!’
Lucas’s laugh echoed round the chamber, building into a roar. The Horselords shivered below, the mortal men of the Lionguard and Horseguard flinching. Birds that roosted on the balcony took flight.
‘You think we’re fleeing?’ He clapped his thigh, slapping the big northman on the shoulder as he wiped away tears of laughter. ‘Look out over the harbour once again, Bear.’
Broghan let his gaze wander over the port. He hadn’t noticed previously, but there they were. Six huge ships were anchored in the bay, a flotilla of smaller vessels pulling away from them as soldiers disembarked on to Lyssian soil. Prince Lucas clapped his hands together with delight.
‘Fleeing? Ha! I’m here to greet family!’
Broghan gulped, looking frantically back across the room towards Gretchen. She stared back in horror.
‘The Catlords come.’
There was no herald to mark the arrival of the Bastian soldiers. Fully thirty boats moored in the harbour and lightly armoured foreigners flooded on to the streets. The City Watch stood to one side, the men passing unopposed. The arrival of hundreds of golden-skinned warriors from Bast was beyond their knowledge and experience. Instinct told them to challenge the force, but doubt ensured that they watched them march by to High Stable, impotent and ineffective.
The storm clouds had long departed. Bright sunlight blazed down upon the warriors as they marched up to the citadel, watched by the populace. The men wore light mail shirts or breastplates and carried spears, swords and shields. Light sandals were laced on their feet while bracers protected their forearms. They looked deadly.
The Horseguard of High Stable were made of sterner stuff than the Watch. Refusing to let them enter, the Horseguard barred the doors to the foreign soldiers, who stood ready to force their way in if the order came. But there was no need, for Lucas’s Lionguard moved quickly to see them opened. The protestations of the Horseguard ceased once the Bastians began to march into the courtyard. They stood by silently as the invaders entered High Stable.
The doors to the courtroom of the Horselords slammed open as fifty warriors entered the ancient chamber, fanning out and ringing the round room in moments. The Horselords looked furious. The last thing they had expected was armed soldiers entering their most sacred chamber.
‘This is an outrage!’ snorted Lorimer, his cry of disgust joined by other Horselords. They stamped their feet angrily, throwing their heads and gnashing their teeth. Facets of the Horses showed on their forms and faces – manes filling, nostrils flaring, shoulders broadening. Broghan watched, recognizing their performance for what it was – a gesture too late in the day. He caught sight of one of the Horselords who wasn’t joining in the chorus. The young one, Conrad, just stood by, looking saddened.
Lucas danced down the steps with the eagerness of a child keen to impress his father. Six golden skinned men in fine battledress entered the room, full helmets covering their faces. Black horsehair plumed over the tops of the helms, trailing down their backs. The Lords of the Longridings shivered with revulsion. Between the six men strode a woman.
She prowled into the room, graceful and sleek, deadlier than the men who surrounded her. She wore little – a thin black dress that allowed the light through its material and revealed more than was decent in a Lyssian court. Horselords gasped at her attire as she slunk her way to the room’s centre. Her black skin was so dark as to be almost purple, the sun’s morning rays shining off the surface, her shaved head swaying as she stalked the room. Green eyes flashed as she cast her glare over all. She was the most fascinating woman Broghan had ever seen.
Lucas dropped to one knee as she approached. She lowered her hand and he took it. Broghan expected the prince to kiss it, but instead he rubbed it against either side of his face, marking his throat with her scent. Broghan shivered, finding the greeting perverse compared to the Lyssian tradition.
‘Lady Opal,’ said Lucas, his head bowed. ‘Welcome to my kingdom.’
‘Off the floor, Lucas,’ she said wearily. ‘It doesn’t suit a Catlord to be on his belly, especially one who claims to own a kingdom.’
‘But this is my kingdom, Lady Opal. Well, that is, my father’s kingdom.’
‘Of course it is,’ she said drily, staring at the
assembled Werelords. She briefly cast her eyes over Broghan. ‘And don’t call me Lady – Opal is the name I was blessed with, and that will suffice. I have no need for the ridiculous titles these Lyssians like to bandy about.’
Lucas nodded, embarrassed.
‘Tell me,’ she called out. ‘Who’s in charge here?’
Duke Lorimer stepped forward from where he stood with Baron Ewan, keeping his chin up as he approached the woman. Good on you, thought Broghan. Let her know this is your courtroom. She should be bowing to you. That’s the one thing you’ve done right so far, Horselord. She looked him up and down, arching an eyebrow when she saw he refused to bow.
‘I am Duke Lorimer, Lord of the Longridings,’ he said stiffly. ‘Welcome to Cape Gala.’
She nodded, gesturing with her hand that he should continue. He looked surprised, expecting her to introduce herself more formally. Opal wasn’t forthcoming. Her six bodyguards in the horsehair helms stood to attention behind her like statues.
‘I must say it’s unorthodox to arrive in Cape Gala unannounced, and furthermore to enter High Stable with armed men. My people frown on such actions and it’s a slight against our realm.’
‘Slight or not, I see no reason to announce my arrival. You need to catch up, Horse. Times are changing. You’ll answer to me now.’
‘With respect, my lady, I answer to nobody. My only agreement is with King Leopold, and my allegiance lies with him until the Longridings takes its independence from the Seven Realms. This has been agreed in principle with Prince Lucas, in return for our favour to him. Soon, the Horselords shall answer to no one.’
‘Whatever agreement you believe you have with the prince and his father, you may now disregard. You and the other Werelords of Lyssia have committed treason against our brother Cat by forcing him off his throne.’
Lorimer looked astonished.
‘We Horselords did no such thing. We’ve remained neutral throughout the troubles in Westland, and remain so now.’
‘Neutral is not loyal, Horselord,’ she sneered, strolling round him as she stared down any who dared look at her. She yawned, revealing dazzling white teeth with slightly enlarged canines.
‘We are a peaceful people, my lady. Ask Prince Lucas – he will vouch for our kindness.’
‘I think I’m suitably informed,’ she said, taking a silver shortsword from the scabbard of one of her bodyguards. She spun and lunged, dropping to her knee as she thrust, the sword disappearing up to the hilt in the duke’s stomach. She twisted it once to the right, before dancing back in a single fluid movement. The sword whipped free, followed by a torrent of blood. Lorimer had hit the floor before the assembled Horselords could gasp.
The Werelords screamed, chaos breaking out in an instant as they rushed towards their dead liege. Opal’s bodyguards stepped forward over the body, their weapons drawn, as their companions all readied their arms as well. The Horseguard were helpless, disarmed in a moment by Lucas’s Lionguard. Broghan watched the chaos unfold, powerless.
‘I might suggest,’ shouted Opal, ‘your immediate silence lest you suffer the same fate as this proud fool. You need to know our … displeasure with your actions in helping the Wolf take the throne. Consequently, I expect you to learn from the lesson of your duke.’ She nudged his body with her foot, which brought a fresh wave of gasps. She glowered and they were silent again.
‘I expect your unwavering obedience henceforth. Nothing is too good for my men. Treat them like your fathers while they watch over this city in my absence. Prove your loyalty and you shall be rewarded.’
She walked up the steps towards the Wererat and Gretchen, Lucas at her shoulder.
‘Gretchen, I presume?’ she said to the Fox. The red-haired girl nodded, her face pale from the sight of the murder she’d just witnessed. ‘You’ll wait here in the custody of Vankaskan until we return from business in the north.’ She turned to the Ratlord, ‘I trust you can take care of matters in our absence?’
The Wererat nodded humbly.
‘No task is too great, Your Highness.’ He nodded towards the body of the slain Horselord. ‘Lorimer. I have … use for his body. May I?’
Opal looked at Vankaskan quizzically for a moment, considering his strange request before shrugging and coldly nodding.
‘He’s hardly much use to his people any more. He’s all yours. Who is that?’ she asked, pointing across the chamber where Broghan stood chained to the wall.
‘The Bearlord, Broghan,’ sneered Lucas. ‘Bergan’s offspring, the traitor from Brackenholme who dethroned my father.’
‘Interesting,’ she said, handing him the silver shortsword. ‘Kill him.’
Lucas looked shocked.
‘You heard me, child,’ said Opal, staring at Gretchen as tears welled in her eyes. She shook her head from side to side, sobbing openly, straining against her chains towards the distant Bearlord. ‘This is where you start to scrape back some honour for Bast, Lucas. A slight against one Catlord is a slight against us all.’
She held the blade out again.
‘Kill him.’
Broghan watched from where he stood, his heart shuddering as Lucas took the blade. The boy prince looked up across the round chamber, a flight of steps leading down to the pit at the bottom and then back up to the platform opposite. The Lion looked fearful; Broghan could see that from where he stood. All eyes were on the prince.
He began to stumble around the top of the circular chamber, following the curving wall, passing pillar and post slowly. It was maybe fifty feet in all. As he drew closer to Broghan the Bearlord could see the Lion’s face changing slowly, from a look of dread to one of decisiveness. His choice made, he began to pick up speed. His golden mane emerged as he jogged, his teeth and jaws jutting and his body changing. The run became a lope, the sword raised high. By the time Lucas had covered the distance he was almost bounding, the Werelion leaping through the air with a roar. Broghan closed his eyes at the last moment, as the shortsword flew to his heart. Gretchen’s scream was the final sound to hit his ears as the world fell silent and dark.
7
Blood and Rain
The storm from the south had taken hold of Highcliff and was refusing to relinquish its grip. The streets were slick with rivers of rainwater, racing down to the Low Quarter where they found the White Sea. The ships that were anchored clashed into one another, battling against the elements. The navy was at sea, leaving the harbour strangely quiet. As lightning flashed over the city, the lone figure of King Leopold could be seen, running along the battlements of Highcliff Keep, roaring angrily into the storm clouds. He was half-transformed, letting the rage take him as he celebrated the beast within. From the High Square, Duke Bergan watched.
The Raging Lion; that’s how they used to describe him in battle, Bergan recalled. Back when he and Wergar faced him as younger men, Leopold had always been a sight to behold. He embraced the monster on the battlefield, discarding caution and giving in to pure aggression. He was a force of nature. Bergan only wished that force was spent now. There was something different about the old Lion’s antics this night.
‘Don’t you feel it, Bergan?’ roared Leopold, waving his clawed arms out before him, wheeling in the rain. ‘Change is coming!’
‘Change is here, right now, Leopold!’ he bellowed up to the Lion. ‘We are the change.’ He cast his hand behind him at the assembled soldiers of Westland. They were diminished now, with the departure of Earl Mikkel’s men, but they were still to be reckoned with.
‘You had your chance,’ yelled the king. Bergan glanced at the men who sheltered from the rain and enemy arrows behind him. Some blocked their ears when the Lion roared, terrified by the cry. Hector watched from a position nearby, his hood up and soaking wet. The young magister watched Bergan, nodding his support.
‘It’s over, Leopold! Stop prolonging the inevitable! How sick with starvation and disease are your men? Save their lives by surrendering your own!’
‘Don’t you smell it
on the wind? In the rain, Bergan? You had your chance! I’m taking my city back! Your Wolf’s Council is breaking around you, and you don’t even know it! Run, Bear! Run!’
The Werelion laughed, smashing whatever he could find on the ramparts; crates, ladders, barrels. He lifted the splintered wood, tossing it wildly over the walls.
‘Highcliff will be mine again!’ he roared.
A voice called to Bergan from the barricades. It was Reuben Fry, the Bearlord’s best archer and captain.
‘I have him, my lord. I can take him.’
Fry had his longbow drawn back to its fullest length, the wood straining as the rain spattered the Sturmlander in the face. His fingers trembled as he held his aim, the arrow ready for flight. The silver head shone in the moonlight.
‘Do it,’ whispered Hector. ‘If you have the shot, take him out!’
‘No,’ said Bergan, raising a hand to halt the attack. ‘We won’t stoop to the level of our enemies.’
‘But we can end this now!’ gasped Hector.
‘No, Hector,’ snapped the Bearlord. ‘That isn’t our way. Silver is outlawed. Lower your bow, Captain Fry. We’ll find another way.’
The Sturmlander reluctantly lowered his bow, taking the rare arrow and placing it back into the mahogany box at his feet. Hector picked up the case and locked it shut, stowing it under his arm while he glowered at the duke through the drizzle.
‘Brenn show us the way to defeat him,’ whispered Bergan as the Lion continued to rage.
While other ships struggled against the storm and sea, one was in its element. The waves crashed against the fleet, battering it mercilessly as rain lashed down from the dark heavens. Almost beaten by the conditions, each vessel only just managed to remain in formation behind the lead ship, the graceful Maelstrom racing ahead as they struggled to keep pace. Count Vega stood on the deck, feet locked in position on the pitching ship as it scythed through the sea. His men ran about, preparing their ship for battle. The sea marshal kept his gaze fixed ahead, intermittently catching sight of their quarry.
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