Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  The surviving Lords of the Longridings had set up their tents at the heart of the encampment. Lorimer and many of the senior Horselords had been slain in High Stable, and as Viscount Colt had wickedly sided with the Catlords, all eyes were on the young Lord Conrad. He was grateful for the presence of Baron Ewan, the old Ramlord providing guidance at this difficult time for him. Expectation weighed heavy on the blond Horselord’s shoulders.

  ‘It makes no sense,’ said Conrad. ‘He can’t have simply disappeared. There was only one way off that balcony, and that would have been a fatal fall to the courtyard below.’

  ‘No body was found in the courtyard,’ repeated Ewan, not for the first time. ‘He didn’t fall.’

  ‘Then what are we to believe?’ asked Gretchen. ‘Drew sprouted wings and flew away?’

  Conrad looked to Ewan who shrugged, tugging at his short, stubby beard. Whitley put her hand on Gretchen’s shoulder to calm her.

  ‘There’s no point us arguing about this,’ said the Bearlord’s daughter. ‘What’s done is done. Drew is gone, and we don’t know where. We can only hope we find him before the Catlords do.’

  Gretchen placed her hand over Whitley’s and gave it a squeeze. The two young Wereladies had become closer, the Fox of Hedgemoor helping Whitley grieve for Broghan. They had been close before, but the loss of a loved one brought them closer still. Both of them feared for the well-being of Drew.

  ‘So where to?’ asked Gretchen, struggling to stay calm while the young man who’d chased after her across Lyssia remained missing.

  ‘The Horselords will head to Calico,’ said Conrad on behalf of his brethren. ‘Duke Brand, the Bull-lord, will provide shelter and arms, I don’t doubt that for a minute. We’ll regroup and ready ourselves for the Bastians’ next move.’

  They all nodded approvingly at this. Gretchen met his gaze, smiling grimly. It was refreshing to hear Conrad’s decisive words after the inaction of the Horselords in Cape Gala. He knew he was in a fight, and he was stepping up to be counted. Ewan clapped him on the back.

  ‘I shall stay with this young Stallion as long as I’m needed, before heading back to Haggard. My city is insignificant to the Catlords, but I’d rather get home and prepare for whatever comes. War approaches and I want my people to be ready.’

  Whitley spoke on behalf of herself and Gretchen. The two girls had discussed their next steps and had been in total agreement.

  ‘Lady Gretchen and I shall head to Brackenholme. The perils of the Dymling Road and the danger of Wylderman attack should dissuade anyone from assaulting the city. The Woodland Realm is my home, a fortress that nobody would dare wage war upon. It’s the safest place for us. Hopefully my father will be there upon our return. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘And I’ll escort you there.’

  The group turned to see Stirga, the Romari sword- swallower, stepping out from the shadows of the tents. The old man had taken on the role of spokesperson for the Romari, an act that was met with hearty approval after his heroism in Cape Gala. Gretchen and Whitley both smiled up at him.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Stirga, but we’ll be fine,’ said Whitley.

  ‘I’ll hear none of it,’ said the Romari, settling down beside them, cross-legged in front of the fire. ‘There are predators out there. We’ve only been in the grasslands for four nights and there’ve been three youngsters gone missing already.’

  ‘Another child is gone?’ gasped Gretchen. Three children missing in four nights, taken from their beds while they slept; she shivered at the thought. Conrad sighed.

  ‘There are beasts that roam the Longridings that might have done such a thing. Not to offend but there are wolves, bears and even big cats; it could be any one of those creatures. Stirga, I’ll make sure there are more bodies on watch at night. See if we can halt these attacks.’

  The Romari nodded.

  ‘So I’ll be accompanying you to Brackenholme, m’ladies. Let’s not forget, nobody knows the roads like the Romari.’

  Before Gretchen and Whitley could reply, a commotion in the camp caused them all to rise from where they sat, as Captain Harker and Quist made their way towards the fire. A crowd of people followed, speaking animatedly, the two Greencloaks escorting a young boy between them. As they approached the Werelords the boy looked between them, eyes wide and fearful.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Conrad, trying not to intimidate the lad any further.

  ‘Just arrived from Cape Gala, a merchant’s son,’ said Harker, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘He lived in one of the big town houses outside High Stable. Tell his lordship what you told me, boy. Don’t be afraid.’

  The boy was dumbstruck, unable to find words.

  Whitley stepped forward and knelt before him, taking his hands in her own. She smiled and nodded, encouraging the boy to speak. He cleared his throat.

  ‘The Wolf,’ he said. ‘The one they had imprisoned in the citadel. I saw how he flew out of there.’

  ‘Flew?’ said Whitley, her big brown eyes wide with astonishment.

  Harker nodded beside the boy before leaning in.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this, my lady.’

  A bucket of icy water over his head woke Drew abruptly from his slumber, the young Wolf shouting with shock at the rude awakening. He lay on the floor inside the belly of a pitching ship, a lantern swinging over his head and sending nightmarish shadows around the room. The walls were bare, no portholes, no furniture, the only creature comfort the bucket for him to use as needed. He wore his tattered breeches, pitted with dirt, sweat and blood. His ribs were proud above his stomach, hunger gnawing within. How long has it been since I’ve eaten?

  As the lantern continued its pendulous motion, he noticed a woman standing against the wall. She wore a leather coat tied about her waist by a large red sash. Her long black hair was braided and piled on top of her head. She cocked her head as he looked at her, appraising him with cold, grey unblinking eyes. He was about to ask her a question when a fist from behind caught him on his temple. He hit the deck, splashing into the icy water, head spinning.

  ‘Is there any need for that?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Every need,’ replied a familiar voice. ‘He’s an animal.’

  Drew blinked, eyes focusing on the woman as she sneered at his assailant.

  ‘Where am I? What happened?’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ said the woman, stepping away from the wall and raising her hand past Drew. By the sound of her voice she could back up her threat. ‘He’s still a Werelord, Djogo, prisoner or not!’

  Djogo; Kesslar’s captain. Drew looked back at the towering man as he was lit up briefly by the swinging lantern. He filled the open doorway behind, glaring down at Drew with his one good eye. The Wolf had taken the other. Beyond the slave-master, Drew could see a wooden staircase up into the ship. Drew turned back to the woman.

  ‘It was you in the dream, carrying me.’

  ‘It was no dream, Wolf. I brought you here, to this ship.’

  Drew recalled being carried through the air, talons in his shoulders and wings beating overhead. What kind of therianthrope was she?

  ‘How did you get me out of there? Why bring me to him?’ said Drew, his voice thick with anger.

  ‘Excellent, our guest awakes at last!’

  The voice was Kesslar’s, the Goatlord walking down the wooden staircase into the room.

  ‘I feared you were dead, lad,’ said the Goat. ‘Five days asleep! Can you imagine that? You must feel like a king now after all that rest.’

  Drew didn’t answer, his eyes locked on the woman.

  ‘Why do you work for him?

  ‘We all have our reasons.’

  ‘We all work for somebody, Drew,’ said Kesslar, crouching on his haunches in front of him, looking him up and down. He reached a hand out and took hold of Drew’s ear, turning his face one way and the other as if examining a bull at the market.

  ‘Will he be well enough to perform?’

>   ‘He should be,’ said Djogo. ‘Once you’ve fed him.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘You murdered those people,’ said Drew. ‘In Haggard. You killed Lord Dorn, the young Bull!’

  ‘He had to be made an example of. I shall not tolerate disobedience among my stock. You, however, having nothing to fear, you’re worth infinitely more to me than some common Bull.’

  Drew retraced his steps in his mind. The events in the city of the Horselords. He remembered being held by Vankaskan, the walking dead, the fight … He looked down at his hands. The left was now gone, a bandaged stump in its place. He nodded slowly to himself.

  ‘Is this the point where you lose your mind, boy?’ laughed the Goat, standing and pointing at the stump Drew cradled in his right arm. ‘That was your own doing. Amazing what you’re prepared to do when your life depends upon it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Be grateful I was able to see to the wound,’ whispered the woman as she walked past towards the door. Drew was instantly intrigued; though hard, the woman had shown kindness to him. Was she also a prisoner of the Goatlord?

  ‘No screaming? No wailing? You disappoint me, Drew,’ said Kesslar.

  Drew looked up at the Goatlord, and calmly smiled, steely eyed. Kesslar arched his brow, unnerved, a smile the last thing he’d expected from the young Wolf.

  For the first time since the murder of Tilly Ferran, the woman who’d raised him as her own, Drew saw everything clearly. He felt as if everything had led to this moment of clarity, locked away in the belly of a filthy slave ship. He’d gnawed off his hand because he was a survivor. He wouldn’t be beaten by the Rat. He wouldn’t be beaten by the Lion. And if he could face such wicked adversaries he could certainly take anything the Goatlord might throw at him. A determination within told him that he could face anything and defeat it.

  He was Drew of the Dyrewood, son of Wergar the Wolf, Lord of Lyssia and rightful king of Westland, and he would run no more. His people needed him, and he would be there for them. He was no longer afraid of his destiny. He now embraced it, and he felt stronger, more powerful and more resolute than ever.

  Kesslar nervously reached past Drew to take something from Djogo, while the young man still stared confidently at him. He threw a huge piece of raw meat on the floor in front of him, the blood instantly pooling round it. Kesslar then followed his lieutenant from the room, Djogo locking the door behind his master.

  ‘Eat up, boy. You’ll need your energy where we’re going. We’ll need you fighting fit for the Furnace.’

  The Furnace: Dorn, the slain Bull, had mentioned the arena to Drew. So Kesslar wanted the Wolf to be his gladiator? Drew nodded grimly to himself. The Goatlord was going to get so much more. Nothing would stand in the way of Drew and his return home to his friends and family.

  A return to Lyssia.

  Sorin’s mouth was dry. He risked a quick look at the men behind him, their faces displaying a similar look of fear. He turned back to stare at the vast frame of Onyx in front of him, as the Pantherlord inspected the sacked courtroom of High Stable. The white haired Catlord wandered nearby, stepping gracefully between the corpses. They moved in a way that was unlike the Werelords of Lyssia. They were more bestial. Two dozen of Sorin’s fellow soldiers stood in the open doorway, afraid to enter. All of them watched the Beast of Bast, waiting for him to react.

  The chamber was littered with decapitated and hacked-up bodies, the air thick with the buzzing of flies. Crows had gathered on the circular steps, fresh from feasting on the dead. They hopped out of the way as Onyx advanced towards the balcony, the albino hissing at them with annoyance.

  Finally Onyx turned. In his hand he held the stripped skull of Lord Vankaskan, the features of the Rat not quite obliterated in death. He tossed it down to the albino and stared at Sorin. His voice made the sergeant’s head thrum.

  ‘The Wolf did this?’

  ‘He … and his friends,’ said Sorin, his voice cracking. ‘The Horselords, Your Highness. The Ram as well, he was with them and the Romari. All conspirators.’

  ‘And Vankaskan? My sister left him in command. How did he let it come to this?’

  ‘I served him for many years alongside Prince Lucas. I fear his fascination with necromancy was his downfall, your highness. He was gripped by dark magicks.’

  ‘There are worse things one could be gripped by,’ said the albino Catlord, shaking the skull as if trying to coax a word from it. Sorin shivered.

  Onyx bent down and pushed a corpse to one side, having found something in the carnage. He pulled it out, brushing the flies from it, before showing it to the others. He held the severed transformed, clawed hand of a lycanthrope that bore a white metal ring on its index finger. He pulled the ring off and rolled it in his palm.

  ‘The mark of Wergar,’ he smiled, revealing the Wolfshead to his men.

  ‘If that’s the Wolf’s paw, I’ll take it,’ said the albino, gratefully receiving it from the Pantherlord.

  ‘I need to find this Wolf,’ growled Onyx as he stared at the ring. ‘Leopold was weak and deserved what came his way, but the weakness ends now. There can be no opposition to King Lucas. No alternative to a Catlord on the throne. Wergar was a monster and the time of the Wolves is over. So long as this one lives he mocks the Lords of Bast.’

  There was a noise from the soldiers in the doorway, as they parted and one broke ranks. He wasn’t a Bastian warrior, and he wore the red cloak of the Lionguard. He walked up to the Beast and bowed low. Sorin recognized him immediately.

  ‘Up,’ said Onyx, looking to the others for an answer. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘The outrider, my lord,’ said Sorin, seeking the Catlord’s pleasure. He hadn’t seen the young scout since they’d parted ways in Highcliff many moons ago. The outrider looked older, stronger, tougher. ‘Prince Lucas sent him to you on behalf of his father.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ said the Werepanther, smiling at the man. ‘I do remember; the messenger. You braved the enemy lines, the wilderness and the ocean to seek our aid for your king, didn’t you? You have the heart of a panther, human. What do you want?’

  ‘I can help you find the Wolf. I can kill him for you.’

  The albino laughed, and even Sorin grinned nervously. What was this fool doing making such a brave boast? Was he mad? He was still mulling this when the young soldier reached forward and snatched the Wolfshead blade from the sheath at Sorin’s hip.

  ‘Not so fast,’ shouted the captain, his decorum lost. ‘That’s mine!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied the outrider, staring at him coldly.

  ‘Silence!’ snapped Onyx at Sorin, and the captain went mute. ‘How do you expect to find him? Why should he let you close to him?’

  ‘I know him, Your Highness,’ said the outrider, removing his own sword from his sheath and throwing it at Sorin’s feet. ‘He’ll trust me.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ sneered Onyx, his eyes narrowing at the young human.

  ‘My name is Trent Ferran,’ said the outrider, slamming the Wolfshead blade home into his scabbard.

  ‘He’s my brother.’