‘Then you admit it,’ said Drew, not looking up. ‘The queen is my mother. How can you deny her the chance to know this?’ he cried. ‘What kind of monster are you?’
The king didn’t reply, instead a heavy boot at his back forced him slowly forward. He struggled against the pressure, but it was unrelenting as the Lion drove Drew towards the cold stone block. He looked down at the basket in front of him where bloated black flies buzzed inside, feasting on the remnants of some previous justice the king had dealt out.
Leopold pulled his sword free from its scabbard, holding the great blade up high over his head for the whole crowd to see. The screams from the front of the crowd reached new levels of raucousness, urged on by their performing king. The sword glittered as the sunlight danced across the wide blade. Embedded silver runes like those on Captain Brutus’s longsword flashed across it, ensuring that the blow to come would be permanent and fatal. He crouched down beside Drew, who lay in submission at his feet.
‘I am the Lion. I am the king of all the Seven Realms and the only lord and master these people will ever know,’ he whispered, saliva hitting Drew’s cheek. ‘You are the Wolf. You are an outcast, a dead breed, a relic of a time long gone that shall never return.’ The hatred that the man held for Drew was palpable. Every word he threw at the boy was laden with contempt and disdain.
‘You were born here and you die here. How fitting.’
Leopold rose to his full height, swinging the sword up into the air with both hands high over his head. Drew could see the Lion’s shadow cast long before his eyes, a perfect silhouette of the executioner. The king still had one more taunt for him.
‘I’ll give you this,’ he hissed finally, starting to swing the great sword down. ‘You put up more of a fight than your brothers and sisters did.’
By the time the sword had finished its journey it was sending showers of sparks off the empty granite block in a deafening clash. The crowd gasped in shock and confusion. Where was the rolling head and the shower of blood? Drew was on his back in front of the king, his movement so swift as he dodged the blow that it had surprised even Leopold. The Werelion’s face contorted with rage, his eyes glowing as his teeth sprang forth.
‘No!’ shouted Drew where he lay, hands still behind his back. ‘You can look at me when you kill me, monster! Know this!’ he yelled to those in the crowd who might hear his voice. And his voice carried. ‘I am the son of Wergar, the son of Amelie, last in the line of the Werewolves of Lyssia, and the Lion is a thief and a murderer!’
‘Silence!’ roared Leopold, standing over him and raising the sword so its point aimed down to Drew’s chest.
The crowd surged once more, and the Lionguard seemed to break in places, struggling to hold back the sea of bodies. The royal pavilion had sprung into activity as the royal family and Werelords stood up as one from their seats and rushed forward to see what was happening. Queen Amelie had risen from her chair, a look of pained bewilderment upon her face. Gretchen rushed to her side, taking her hand tightly in her own and squeezing it. On the scaffold, before all of Highcliff, the Lion closed in to kill the Wolf.
‘I want to look at you as you kill me,’ mouthed Drew to the enraged king, a strange serene smile spreading across his face. He was at peace. The sword descended.
6
Sacrifice
Before Leopold’s sword could connect with Drew’s chest, there was a flash of movement as three members of the Lionguard crashed into the king, knocking him to the hard decks of the scaffold. A fourth soldier appeared above Drew, where the king had been just seconds before. He couldn’t make the man out, the sun behind him casting his whole body into shadow, but the uniform of the Lionguard was unmistakable. As chaos erupted all around them, the man dropped to one knee, flipping a startled Drew on to his stomach. He felt a knife working hard at the unnaturally tight silver bonds that held his wrists together.
‘Who are you?’ Drew shouted over the din, but he received no response. He looked across the execution stage as the decking thundered under the sound of rushing booted feet, and the ringing of swords on shields shook his skull. He could see men of the Lionguard fighting one another, swords drawn, brother apparently attacking brother. In a flash of detail he noticed that a number of them had pulled their tabards away, revealing tattered old ones beneath, the image instantly searing itself on his brain – a silver wolf’s head silhouetted against black. There weren’t many of them, they were vastly outnumbered by others in the ranks of loyal men, but they had rushed towards the scaffold, forming a loose line of defence while the soldier behind him worked at his rope cuffs. He glanced behind, just in time to see three of the four men who had rushed the king fly high into the air, launched skyward as Leopold rose from the melee in all his glory.
As the soldiers’ bodies landed with bone-crunching clatters, the Werelion let out a blood-curdling roar. He was at least nine feet tall, his cloak flapping in the mid-morning breeze, tattered by the sword blows that the men had delivered. His head was fully transformed, a snapping jaw of inch-long teeth gnashing at the air. A golden mane framed his broad head like a halo, one of his huge clawed hands still clutching the pommel of his sword, which now looked far more in proportion to his body than moments earlier. One soldier still held on to his back, sword raised, and plunged the blade into the Lion’s shoulder. With a swift paw Leopold grabbed hold of the man across his back, reaching and finding his throat as he tore it loose in one savage motion. The body fell to the floor, lifeless.
Before the soldier cutting the last of Drew’s bonds could finish, he was bowled out of the way by the king. A sweeping uppercut from Leopold’s clawed hand sent the man skittering across the stage, a shower of blood trailing in his wake. Drew rolled over, channelling all of his strength into the change, risking everything in the hope that the soldier had cut enough of the silver bindings. Resisting at first, the ropes finally snapped as Drew felt muscle and raw energy rush through him.
The deck splintered beside his head as the king’s sword smashed down, cleaving through the six-inch timbers like a knife through butter. Drew sprang to one side, keeping moving as the king followed him, the sword arcing through the air where the Werewolf’s head had been a moment earlier.
Stay alert, thought Drew. Remember Gerard’s lessons: keep your legs moving, don’t let him in.
Again the sword flew down, crashing into wood as Drew jumped aside. With each evasion of the Lion’s sword Drew could feel the Wolf growing stronger. His arms were now transformed, the white shirt no longer loose but straining across bulging muscles. Steel grey hair raced over his body as he let loose everything he had left. His dark clawed hands scrabbled at the decking as he stayed on all fours, bounding clear of the enraged Werelion time and time again. His jaw snapped, dislocating as the beast inside him rearranged his restrictive human features, thrusting a snarling muzzle outward while dark fur shot across his flesh. His amber eyes stayed on his enemy at all times, his senses becoming sharper as he let the Wolf loose.
For all the power, speed and strength Drew now had at his disposal, he was still no match for the Werelion. As Drew found himself back where he’d originally lain bound, his right leg slipped through the timbers splintered by the Lion’s earlier attack. It caught, just for a second, but it was long enough for the king to connect with both steel and claw. His silver-laced sword tore across Drew’s shoulder, ripping a ragged hole, while his hand lashed up from below. He caught the Wolf on his jaw and sent him flying through the air to land in the middle of the warring soldiers.
Immediately a circle cleared around him, affording Drew a chance to look about. The royal pavilion was alive with activity – Werelords in various states of change engaging with soldiers and one another. He saw Prince Lucas pulling Gretchen by the hand as she lashed out at him. His mother, Queen Amelie, stood behind the Werefox, arms around her hips, trying to stop her son from taking Gretchen. Hector was standing beside a heavily built fellow whose canine head was covered with black
and white fur. There was nothing comedic about the sight of the Werebadger, one of the lesser lords, as he defended the young Boarlord from the savage blows of Captain Brutus.
The crowd raged all around the square, inspired by the fight, rushing against the oppressive Lionguard as they noticed the colours of the Wolfguard dotted about the scaffold. Before Drew could make out any more details he felt a sword hack against his flank, then another, as two Lionguard dealt him raking blows. The bodies of men from both the Wolfguard and the king’s soldiers littered the decking as Drew traded blows with the two attackers. Seeing their king heading for Drew they fell back, re-engaging other opponents.
Leopold paced towards Drew, huge chest heaving, his monstrous maw moving as he spoke. ‘No running, dog,’ he growled, his voice deep and booming, eclipsing the noise of the surrounding chaos. ‘Fight me! Coward!’
Drew knew he couldn’t keep on running. He was already wounded and had nowhere to retreat to. Now was the time to make his stand. The Lion was about to shout something else, but the words never left his lips. Drew leapt from where he squatted on the ground, springing across the stage like a cannonball of claws and fangs. He hit Leopold square in the chest before he could raise his sword in defence, and the two hit the decking, howling and roaring, claws ripping, teeth clashing.
Drew could feel his claws connecting, ripping at the Lion’s chest and flanks. He broke past the king’s paws with his teeth to bite at the beast’s neck, teeth closing and grinding at the skin. But Leopold was tough, his flesh hard and leathery, the Wolf’s teeth only breaking the surface of the Lion’s throat and causing superficial damage. All the while Drew tore and bit, the king continued his own assault, to greater and bloodier effect. He brought his back legs into the battle, his boots now in tatters as additional paws curled up from below, the razor-sharp claws digging and tearing at the young Wolf’s unprotected belly. His arms kept a grip on Drew’s back, holding him close in a death embrace, all the while pulling at his flesh. And his teeth came down again and again, biting into Drew’s exposed shoulders and neck, fur flying as the softer younger skin put up less resistance than his own.
Drew could feel his energy failing, his whole torso a mess of blood and torn flesh. He held on to his enemy – he had no choice – trading blows with the Werelion but losing the battle as time wore on. Within moments he could sense his body failing him, the contest edging ever nearer its grim conclusion. There was an earth-shaking crash, the whole decking threatening to collapse as a great weight landed upon it. A mighty horn blew, deafeningly loud, pealing out over the whole of Highcliff.
‘Leave the boy alone!’ bellowed a monstrous voice as further thunderous noises descended on to the scaffold. The king looked up as Drew struggled to pull free. Duke Bergan stood on the platform, himself changed into his therian form, the Old Bear towering over everybody, even the giant beast that was the king. He lowered his horn to his hip, his other hand weighing up his axe readily. To his side stood another changed Werelord. The three-foot antlers that emerged from his long snorting skull came to wicked points, a full head of deadly daggers, as Manfred of Stormdale lowered his brow menacingly. Behind the two of them leapt Count Vega, still for the most part in his buccaneering human form, but with a smile full of sharp and savage teeth. The king held on to Drew, refusing to let go.
‘And if I don’t?’ he growled. All the fighting on the scaffold had ceased, either through victory on one side or sheer disbelief at the sight that confronted the men.
‘You kill him. We kill you. It ends here now,’ said Bergan, his great shaggy head motionless as he stood ready to rush the king.
‘Or,’ said Duke Manfred, ‘you leave, now, with your life, never to come back. Something you never allowed Wergar to do.’
The Werelion looked at the boy in his grasp, the deep growl that emanated from his chest rattling its way through Drew’s body like an earthquake. Standing suddenly, the Lion brought a clawed hand up to Drew’s head, taking a grip of the Wolf’s own mane of dark black hair. The crowd booed, baying at him, calling for him to stop. He looked around the square, surveying the situation, horrified at how quickly his people had turned against him. A further figure bounded on to the stage, this one standing by his side: the lord chancellor.
‘Your Majesty,’ whispered the Wererat, who was still in his cloaked human form, ‘I think it might be prudent if we make a retreat.’
‘Listen to Vanmorten,’ snarled Bergan. ‘They’re the first words of wisdom that have ever slipped from the Rat’s mouth.’
The Wererat hissed from inside his hood, putting a hand on his master.
‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘this is not a surrender. We have the castle. We have our army. We still have the city. These fools are now prolonging the inevitable. Give them the dog if it allows us to regroup, and then we shall strike back and lay waste to these traitors and their petty realms. We have allies. Remember?’
The king growled once more. The lord chancellor’s words were hitting home, but the king was a proud man, and he’d never walked away from a fight in his life. The castle was a good idea, but it would be on his terms. He shifted his grip on the great sword in his other hand, his knuckles tightening about the scalp of the Wolf.
Before he could move, Count Vega had flung something through the air, whirling across the stage as Drew reached out and snatched it with his right hand, not stopping its momentum. The Wolfshead blade landed smoothly in his grasp and he turned it towards his attacker. The sword hit the Lion square in his exposed torso, its razor-sharp edge finding purchase between the king’s muscled ribs. In it went, clean through the Lion, right to the hilt and out the other side. The Lion lifted Drew by the hair, the sword sliding free from his chest, and sent him flying across the stage to land in a heap among the other bodies. The blow would not be fatal – the Wolfshead blade was untreated by silver – but such an attack would incapacitate the Lion.
‘Protect the king!’ roared Vanmorten, and a squad of Lionguard rushed to Leopold’s side and dragged him away. Many of the men in the Wolf’s colours lay dead, dying or injured on the platform as the king and his soldiers retreated. Bergan did not follow – there was still business to attend to. The main force of the Lionguard remained in the square and was approaching the bloodied scaffold.
Drew rolled over where he lay, coming face to face with the helmeted head of the guard who had cut him free. The man’s red tabard had been torn wide open by the king’s attack, fully exposing the long-lost Wolfguard symbol beneath. This too had been sliced apart, and the steel armour of his breastplate had provided little resistance against the Werelion’s deadly claws. The man’s stomach was bleeding heavily. With his energy sapped Drew could feel his body start returning to normal, his heart aching at the sight of his saviour who had paid for Drew’s life with his own. The man spluttered, and Drew reached with torn fingers to remove his helmet. As the armour came away Drew came face to face with Mack Ferran, his father.
‘Pa?’ Drew cried out, clutching the man’s face in both hands. What was he doing here?
Mack Ferran’s eyes were clouding over, and blood caked his mouth and teeth. His gauntleted fingers were holding his stomach in place as best he could, but it was a futile effort. ‘Son …’ he coughed, but the effort was too great.
‘No, Pa,’ said Drew, tears rushing free now. ‘Don’t speak. We’ll get you healed. Get you better.’
‘Drew, we have to move,’ shouted Duke Bergan, who stood beside Manfred and Vega. Along with the remaining Wolfguard, they kept the king’s soldiers at bay as best they could. ‘They are too many! We need to go!’
The soldier in Drew’s arms spluttered, bloody bubbles frothing in his mouth.
‘Can’t heal now, lad,’ he said. ‘Too late for that. The king, Drew. He killed your real family. Slaughtered ’em and burned ’em up. Your mother, she took you as her own.’ He coughed again, closing his eyes. ‘Your mother … I thought … thought you’d done that. Thought you’d turned on her. Turne
d on us.’
Drew shook his head, sniffing. ‘No, never, Pa. I loved her. I love you all. It was a monster. A Wererat they say. She died in my arms …’ he finished, realizing the same thing was happening all over again, this time with his father.
‘I’m sorry, son,’ Mack Ferran whispered quietly, the air from his lungs escaping with these last words.
‘I forgive you,’ returned Drew with a kiss to his father’s cheek, but he was already dead.
‘Drew!’ shouted Count Vega, his rapier flashing out into the red-cloaked Lionguard, their ranks swelling all the while as soldiers rushed to their comrades’ side. The king may have retreated, but this was still the Lion’s city and all those who disputed that were still the enemy. ‘Move yourself! There are too many of them!’
Drew rose from the decking, shockwaves coursing through him, limping and staggering as he looked about. He could see the royal pavilion where a few remaining Werelords still held their ground. When he saw Hector in the middle of them, he felt a glimmer of relief. The Boarlord gestured desperately, beckoning him over, but got no response.
Manfred followed Drew’s gaze. ‘To the pavilion!’ he shouted, rushing up to Drew and taking him by the elbow. He was ushered down the steps of the scaffold, as three of the Wolfguard ran before them, pushing the crowds aside as they tried to force their way through. From the rear of the square the first wave of the men of Brackenholme was surging forward, accompanied by those from Stormdale. Drew saw Lord Broghan, the Bearlord’s son, leading the way, swinging his axe through the king’s men. They were still a great distance from the Werelords, fighting against a dedicated mass of Lionguard, but their sheer presence filled Drew’s heart with hope. The tide might just be able to turn.
The Lionguard at the scaffold seemed to sense the arrival of their enemy in force. From their vantage point they suddenly appeared to be disengaging, pulling back from direct combat. Drew heard the captains barking out orders to their men as they fell into units, guarding one another with shield and sword. As they retreated, some of the braver cityfolk began shouting at them – the few who had supported the king had fallen silent, either fleeing the scene of battle or being dispatched by their neighbours. Now the Lionguard weren’t just facing the allies of Duke Bergan but the very people they were sworn to ‘protect’. A hail of stones and bricks showered forward, smashing and clattering against the soldiers’ armour. The tide was indeed turning.
Rise of the Wolf Page 29