A cry from within the courtroom echoed around the gallery, causing the Horselords present to kiss their knuckles in prayer. Even the soldiers he passed looked shaken, Horseguard and golden-skinned southerners alike. They kept apart, passing one another and saying nothing. What are these warriors doing in Cape Gala? Drew’s head thundered. Everything stank of disorder and chaos. Where have they come from?
Drew had almost completed a circuit of the gallery when he spied Baron Ewan. The Ramlord stood in a window alcove, talking to the young Horselord Drew had seen when they’d first entered High Stable. Is it Conrad? If I can catch Ewan’s eye I might stand a chance. He’ll help. He’ll know where Gretchen is.
Drew edged nearer, keeping enough distance not to arouse suspicion but coming close enough to hear what they discussed. The Wolf’s heightened hearing could aid him here. He stood against a wall to attention, as he’d seen other soldiers doing, praying his bare feet were hidden beneath his cloak’s shadow.
‘I can’t stand by and watch this horror,’ whispered the blond Horselord. ‘He’s making a mockery of High Stable. It is perverse and goes against Brenn’s will. Someone should stop him.’
‘And who would that be, Conrad?’ asked the Ramlord. ‘Are you going to stop him? Then what? You’d never get out of here alive.’
‘Better to make a stand and die than live through this ghastly circus!’
‘And if you fail, what then? You know it doesn’t end with death. It’ll be you he plays with next, and it’ll be your hands and teeth that he sets upon your loved ones.’
‘Vankaskan needs to be stopped, by whatever means necessary.’
‘You should have left; nothing but death awaits man and therian in Cape Gala.’
‘You’re still here,’ said the Horselord quietly. ‘I’d have thought you’d have returned to Haggard by now. Will you not fight them?’
‘I’ve no fight left in me. The Catlords are our new masters, and we’ve nobody left to aid us. Your brethren diminish by the day, Conrad. Who will you turn to for help?’
Drew jumped as he heard Conrad snort. The Horselord’s leg lifted, wanting to stamp with anger, and it took all his willpower to stop it. Drew was relieved. The last thing Conrad needed was to draw the attention of the foreign warriors. Ewan gripped his forearm to calm him.
‘Your uncle’s body’s in there, Conrad. And there’ll be more until Opal returns and puts an end to the Rat’s madness. Who knows when that will be? Will there be any Horselords left by then?’
‘Then we make a stand!’
‘The time for the Longridings to make a stand has been and gone, young one,’ sighed Ewan sadly. ‘The enemy is within your home, feasting from your table and treating you as his servant. This is what we’re left with – serving a new master. All we can do is look after our own. Return home, Conrad; go to your people, protect and defend them.’
‘What will you do?’ the Horselord asked, fixing his gaze on the Ramlord.
‘Return to Haggard and take care of my wife and people. The Longridings is a broken realm now; Brenn knows what will happen to the rest of Lyssia. All we can do is look after our own. If that means servitude, then so be it.’
‘Servitude? You surrender to these Bastians without putting up a fight?’
Ewan shook his head.
‘The horse has bolted, if you’ll pardon the expression. It’s all about survival now.’
Conrad turned, bottling up his anger and strode away. He marched past Drew, disappearing down the darkened corridor. I like him, thought Drew as the Horselord vanished. Ewan stood alone by the tall window, looking down upon Cape Gala. Another scream, louder than any of the others, rattled through the corridor. The Ramlord clutched his chest, as if the shriek pierced his heart. Drew stepped closer, keeping his back to the wall.
‘My lord,’ he said.
‘What is it, man?’ muttered the Lord of Haggard. Drew checked that nobody was passing and the corridor was quiet. It was late and the night threw a dark blanket over High Stable. He lifted the helmet, turning back to his friend. Instantly Ewan grabbed Drew, pulling him into the alcove, banging into and almost toppling over a tall brass candlestick. He steadied the metal post with a trembling hand.
‘Drew! What are you doing here? You should have stayed away!’
‘Leave my friends? Impossible. I’d die for those people. Where are they?’
‘Oh, Drew, it isn’t as simple as that,’ he sighed, his face etched with sadness and heartache. ‘Everything’s changed. The Horselords have been broken.’
‘I heard that nobleman – Conrad? He spoke sense, Ewan. Band together; make a stand. It’s the only way, my friend. Trust your fellow Werelords against this new threat.’
‘Did you not hear? It’s too late to make a stand.’
‘It’s never too late, Ewan. What evil is Vankaskan doing in there?’
‘I fear that risen monster who bit Whitley was just the beginning.’ The Ramlord clasped a hand on Drew’s shoulder, squeezing tightly, a tear rolling down his face. ‘Oh, Drew, you should never have returned to this ill-fated city.’
‘I never went away. Now come, show me where he’s keeping my friends.’ He patted the Ram on the back and turned about, adjusting the helm on his head once more.
‘The Wolf is the last thing the Rat will be expecting.’
Unfortunately for Drew, this was the last thing he said. A ferocious blow to the back of his head made blinding white lights flash in front of his eyes, his helmet ringing like a struck steel drum as he collapsed to the floor in an unconscious heap.
Baron Ewan stood over Drew’s body, his ragged breath caught in his throat. He looked at the brass candlestick in his hands, dropping it with horror as he realized the full implications of what he’d done. It clattered to the ground, chiming like a struck bell. He lifted a shaky hand in the direction of the boy on the floor, wanting to touch him, wanting to check he wasn’t dead.
Guards began to gather, as one of the warriors from Bast crouched, whipping the helmet from the head of the prone barefoot guard. Drew’s dark hair tumbled loose, thick with blood from his head wound. His eyes were closed – the young therian was in a deathly slumber.
‘Who is he?’ asked the golden-skinned Bastian warrior, looking up at Ewan with cold, emotionless eyes.
‘He’s the Wolf,’ whispered Ewan, his voice breaking as his heart screamed traitor. ‘Tell Lord Vankaskan I’ve captured the Wolf for him.’
2
TheVagabond Players
Whitley peeked through the cloth wall of the wagon, watching the crowd of soldiers. A great many looked out of place compared to their companions. They were dressed in light armour, with small swords, spears and round buckler shields at their hips, and they outnumbered the Lionguard by four to one. Their skin was tanned the colour of the sun, almost shimmering with a golden sheen. Whitley figured they were from some faraway place. So what were they doing in Cape Gala?
They were gathered round the Romari performers known as the Vagabond Players, enjoying a rare evening’s entertainment. Travelling the length and breadth of the Longridings, their usual audience was townsfolk and villagers, not military men. Currently a wiry old fellow was swallowing a sword, the steel disappearing inch by inch into his throat and torso. The soldiers held their breath as the sword descended, waiting for the basketwork hilt to hit his teeth before they let loose a gasp of appreciation. The old man took hold of the blade between bony fingers before slowly withdrawing it hand over hand, unsheathing it from his throat. As the blade emerged he bent double to bow, stabbing the earth at his feet with the rapier. The soldiers cheered and hollered as a trio of scantily clad girls joined the sword-swallower and began to dance.
Whitley let the cloth fall back into place as the dancing girls continued to entertain the soldiers. They were in a cramped chamber towards the front of the wagon, a fake wall allowing them to stow away. Similar smuggling compartments ensured that others were hidden within the other two caravans. Th
e guards on the gate into Cape Gala had paid little attention, happy to see their bronze and wave them through, even taking a few coppers for their trouble. Whitley was relieved that Baba Korga had enough coins to make it appear the caravans had money. Once in, the matter of getting into the citadel’s courtyard was easy. Parking outside a tavern near the barracks had ensured that the travelling players were brought to the Watch’s attention. Once they offered a free performance the rest was easy – the guards couldn’t get them through the gates quickly enough.
Whitley looked at her three companions in the carriage. The mute Rolff sat on the floor, legs folded, while the two Greencloaks crouched in front of him. Quist, the most senior surviving ranger, was pointing at the crude map she’d scratched into the floorboards with her dagger, indicating where they should try to enter the citadel. Her companion, Tristam, shook his head, jabbing towards the guards outside. He drew a thumb across his throat.
‘We won’t get past that crowd,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll see us coming before we move. Too many of ’em.’
Whitley had reached Quist and Tristam via Baba Korga and her people. They’d sent a scout across the camp and into the marshes where the ranger had said Whitley would find them. Sure enough the two Greencloaks were waiting, the third woodlander, Machin, having continued north up the Steppen to send word back to Duke Bergan. Whitley had apologized to Quist for jumping from the boat, but the woman bore her no ill will. She was simply glad Whitley was alive, and delighted to hear she’d made contact with the Romari. Now they could put a plan into action and see about rescuing their friends.
‘We can’t just stay in these wagons,’ hissed Quist as the old sword-swallower, Stirga, provided a musical accompaniment for the dancers on his lute. ‘We need to move. We need to get in there and find them!’
Rolff clicked his fingers suddenly, causing the other three to look at him. Their attention captured, he reached behind, rummaging under the driver’s seat at his back. He pulled out a leather bag which had a thick cork stopper at its neck. He handed it to Tristam. The ranger pulled the cork free and sniffed. Liquid sloshed inside.
‘Odourless. Is it water?’ Rolff shook his head. Whitley’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Quist. The senior ranger was ahead of Whitley as she asked the question of the tall mute.
‘Lunewine?’
The Romari nodded slowly.
‘What’s lunewine?’ asked Tristam.
‘It’s a sleeping draught,’ answered Whitley, thinking back to her herblore lessons with Master Hogan. ‘You can distill it from the nightskull, a white flower that only blooms under a full moon. They grow deep within the Dyrewood, and there aren’t many who know where to find them. How did you come by it?’
‘He can’t answer you,’ whispered Quist. ‘We should be happy we have it, regardless of how our silent friend here came by it. It’s powerful stuff; poisonous in a large dose, but an effective sedative when diluted.’
‘So we drug them? That can be done?’ asked Whitley.
The Greencloaks and Rolff looked at one another, shrugging, nodding and eventually agreeing.
‘I guess so,’ said Quist. ‘But getting it into their drinks is the difficult bit.’
Whitley reached across and took the leather bag from Quist, popping the stopper back into place.
‘For you, perhaps.’
Tristam looked surprised, impressed by the scout’s nerve. But the idea of sending the Lady of Brackenholme straight into the fray didn’t please Quist.
‘I can’t let you go. Your father would have my head if he knew I was placing you in danger!’
‘I’ll be fine. I’m fast, I’m agile and I’ve always been stealthy – Master Hogan would never have taken me on otherwise. All three of you stand out in a crowd; you won’t get ten yards without being spotted by the Lionguard. I, however …’
Whitley tied her hair back and tucked it into the neck of her dirty brown shirt picked up from Baba Korga, her boyish looks making her appear like any other urchin from the city’s streets. Quist nodded slowly as Whitley hooked the pouch on to her belt. Rolff lifted the false boards out of the floor of the wagon. The scout stepped over either side of the hole, smiled at the three and then dropped out of sight.
She landed in the dirt below the caravan. The hoardings that rested round the wheels gave her cover as she shuffled towards the rear. Slipping between the performers’ crates and provisions that had been unloaded, she was soon mingling with the Romari at the back of the wagons. Whitley wandered past the fire-eater as he oiled himself. The big man winked at her, and even though she was in a grave situation, Whitley couldn’t resist grinning back. The lives of her friends depended upon her. For the first time since her terrible bite, Whitley felt alive. Whitley felt like a hero.
Taking a loaf of cherrybread from where it sat untouched, she slowly strolled away from the caravans and into the courtyard proper. The odd guard and servant walked past, completely ignoring her. She looked like any serving boy, the most unremarkable soul in High Stable. From within the tower she could hear cries and moaning, noises that made her skin crawl. She was transported instantly back to the dead soldier who had attacked her. She felt sick suddenly, nauseous beyond words.
Wanting to be away from the wails, she wandered back round the yard, drawing closer to the cheering soldiers. The men of the Lionguard were especially noisy, roaring at the three dancing women, while the southern warriors showed more composure. She saw the soldiers refilling their tankards from a couple of large barrels to the rear of the crowd. Whitley waited for her moment. Not long now.
The dancers withdrew suddenly as the music stopped. A flash of blinding fire erupted in front of the caravans as the fire-eater appeared from nowhere, belching a fireball into the night above the soldiers’ heads. They hollered, crowding closer to the big, oily Romari as he guzzled a fresh mouthful of spirits. Whitley moved fast.
The lids of the barrels were off, a metal ladle hanging nearby to decant the wine. Whitley ripped the stopper off the pouch and emptied half the contents into one barrel, before finishing the job in the next. Shoving the empty skin back into her belt she stepped away, bumping instantly into a thin looking soldier in a dirty red cloak. His nose was badly broken, and Whitley gulped hard trying not to look alarmed.
‘What are you doing, boy?’
The man grabbed Whitley by the ear, twisting it sharply. Whitley was on her toes, fearing her earlobe might tear off.
‘Well? Speak!’
Whitley pulled the loaf of cherrybread out from behind her back.
‘From the kitchens, sir. Cook told me to send it out to the captain.’
The man took the bread, glancing towards a huge man with his arm in a sling who watched the fire-eater. He sniffed the loaf, his broken nose twitching. He nodded, releasing Whitley’s ear.
‘Good lad. On your way.’
The soldier returned to the group, snatching up a bottle from the floor and biting into the bread. Whitley’s heart raced. She was all too aware of the peril she was in. She stumbled away from the crowd, the night lit up by occasional explosions of flames. There was nothing enjoyable about this. She no longer felt like a hero. The wailing in the tower, the memories of her attack, the vicious soldier and her narrow escape, Whitley had never known fear like this.
She followed the same route back to the caravans, looping out and away from the guards and skirting the tall flight of steps that led into the granite tower. As she staggered through the courtyard a young man in cream robes descended the staircase, aiming to intercept her. He was tall and wore a smart beard, his long blond hair tied in gold hoops down his back. She recognized him instantly from the encounter in High Stable.
‘Young man,’ he said, his voice low and hand raised as he tried to catch Whitley’s attention. Whitley walked on, pretending not to hear; she was so close to the caravans.
‘You there, stand still,’ said the man, jumping down the last few steps and standing in front of the disguised girl. Wh
itley kept her eyes on the ground, cursing her ill luck. The man crouched quickly so that his face was level with Whitley’s.
‘Well if you won’t look up I’d best get down to your level, eh?’
Whitley briefly looked at him. He might have a beard covering his square jaw, but he was young, not much older than Drew, handsome with blue twinkling eyes. Whitley felt tremendously wary, her heart beating frantically. He squinted at her. Did he recognize her? He smiled and winked.
‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ said the man. He leaned in to whisper.
‘I saw what you did.’
Whitley’s stomach lurched; he had to be bluffing. The man prodded the wineskin in Whitley’s belt.
‘I saw what you did with this … Greencloak.’
Whitley gulped, her throat suddenly very dry.
‘Please, sir …’ began Whitley, but the man silenced her swiftly.
‘Shh. Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble. What was in the wineskin?’
‘Lunewine,’ whispered Whitley.
The man nodded, scratching his beard while he watched the boozing soldiers. He looked towards the other side of the courtyard where a group of Horseguards had gathered.
‘Where are your friends? You can’t be doing this alone.’
Whitley chewed her lip. She was going to get them into so much trouble.
‘Listen, son. You’ve nothing to fear from me. We share the same enemy and no doubt want the same thing. Somehow you’ve managed to get into High Stable, which is an achievement in itself. Let me help you get a little further.’
3
The Tightening Noose
The remaining members of the Wolf’s Council stood on the viewing platform known as the Crow’s Nest, looking out over a city in panic. From his position high above the Tall Quarter in the wooden tower, Duke Bergan could inspect the sea to the west, the countryside to the east, the Redwine to the south and Highcliff Keep to the north. All four points of the compass were a vision of chaos.
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