Drew was pushed and jostled through the crowd in the direction of the pavilion. His head swam with nausea as he looked down at his hands, still slick with the blood of his father. He turned them over and over again, back and then palm up, looking as their colour slowly shifted from grey back to pink. The Wolf was retreating. Lights speckled in front of his eyes, tiny eruptions of dizziness as he tried to grasp what had just happened. He looked up to see Gretchen high in the pavilion, hugging Hector in triumph. To the other side of her was Queen Amelie, and her face was a mask of tears and joy.
Mother, thought Drew. My mother.
His head swam with confusion, his lycanthrope body numb to the great damage he’d sustained. Lightheaded and floating through the crowd, he looked over the sea of heads towards the castle. Vega and Bergan were close behind, the Wolfguard closing ranks around them as the Lionguard continued their retreat across the drawbridge. Drew snapped back into himself, like a drowning man gasping for air. They flooded back to him, the words of Leopold and Mack Ferran. The queen’s children – his brothers, his sisters – butchered by the Lion, murdered and then burned. Who did the king answer to? What justice was there in this world if they let him go free?
Revived by his sense of duty, he broke away suddenly, unexpectedly. Transforming quickly from his Wolf form, he had slipped free from Manfred’s grasp before the Werestag had a moment to react. He was gone into the throng in a moment, no longer the Werewolf but a man once again, blending in with the crowd.
‘Where is he?’ shouted Bergan across the crowd to Manfred. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘He was here a second ago,’ called the Lord of Stormdale, looking about the crowd. Bergan followed his gaze, searching for the young man. The crowds held back from the Werelords, so monstrous and terrifying in appearance, and the panic about them caused even greater confusion as they searched for the escaped Werewolf.
‘Drew!’ roared Bergan into the crowd, but, bear or not, his voice didn’t carry far into the tumult.
‘There!’ shouted Vega suddenly, pointing towards the castle as the drawbridge was raised. ‘Sosha, what is he doing?’ he cried.
‘NO!’ the three of them shouted in unison, Hector and Gretchen screaming the same pleas as they spied their friend, but it was too late.
Bergan could see Drew scrambling for purchase on the end of the drawbridge, one bloodied arm hooked over the edge as his legs dangled below. It was halfway up now, a great forty-foot bridge of the thickest timbers, rising to close against the stone wall of the gatehouse. A yawning chasm opened up below, a natural canyon that disappeared down the castle’s cliff-face walls, ending where they met the sea in a mass of rocks and crashing waves. If the boy fell … Bergan didn’t want to think of what the drop might do to him. Nor did he entertain the thought of what fate awaited him if he made it into the keep.
Exhausted, tattered and torn, Drew scrambled to throw his leg over the edge of the drawbridge, his heel finally finding a grip as he pulled his aching body over. His ears were ringing as he readied himself on the end of the rising bridge. He wiped his blood-smeared hand across his brow, trying to clear his vision.
The last the assembled Werelords and crowds saw of Drew was the image of him raising the Wolfshead blade above his head as he disappeared down the other side of the bridge.
7
Unfinished Business
Drew landed with a sickening crunch on to the cobbled ground beneath the gatehouse. Jagged pains shot up his left leg, and he looked down to see his foot twisted into an impossible position. He felt the bones inside his ankle grating against one another, tearing against the flesh within. The pain woke him from his fevered state, the clouds of confusion parting as he pulled himself together. Standing upright he held the sword point down, using it as a crutch, as he squinted into the courtyard beyond. His heart sank with dread realization. What was he doing here?
The courtyard was packed with the Lionguard, hundreds of Leopold’s elite soldiers moving as one to see who had followed them into Highcliff Castle. The look of disbelief spread among them like wildfire, the men incredulous that the Wolf had pursued them. Drew turned round and saw the drawbridge disappearing into the darkened recesses of the gatehouse, his way of escape firmly blocked. He was under no illusions. This really was the end.
The familiar sound of one man clapping slowly echoed across the courtyard over his shoulder. Drew’s head dropped. He didn’t want to face him, but also knew it was time to face his enemy. The bravado he’d felt lying before the executioner’s block had escaped him now, evaporating like morning mist on a hot summer’s day. Some headstrong, dazed compulsion had led him here, brought him to his death when he’d been in touching distance of freedom. He hopped about and made his way towards the king. The ranks of soldiers pulled back, their swords drawn, still wary of him initially. But as the wounded figure stumbled out of the shadows on one leg, they saw him for what he now was – defenceless and quite harmless. Leopold continued to clap as he came forward to meet Drew, his red-cloaked men parting before him like a tide of blood.
Drew felt a twinge of satisfaction: the king was still injured. Now back in his human form, it would be some time before his lycanthropy began to work its magic on his stomach wound. Already one of his men had bandaged him round the middle, a long roll of white cloth mottled dark red where Drew’s sword had impacted. The king was bedraggled and dishevelled, as far from noble as Drew could imagine. He looked awful, but Drew knew he looked worse. The Werelion stopped clapping when he came within ten paces of Drew, clasping his hands together as if in prayer to Old Brenn.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for following me here. You would not believe what joy you’ve brought to your dear king’s heart.’
‘You’re not my king,’ said Drew. ‘Be done with it. Kill me now,’ he said, wincing and shifting his weight on to the Wolfshead blade as he let his broken ankle hang loose.
The king stood there, looking the youth up and down. Then he slowly walked round Drew, inspecting him like he was a piece of meat hung in a butcher’s shop, until he returned to face him. Beyond the king, Drew could see other members of the king’s court, four of the five Rat King brothers standing as one. He couldn’t see Vankaskan or Lucas, and could only hope that they’d been injured or worse in the earlier battle.
‘I have a better idea,’ replied Leopold eventually. ‘Vanmorten,’ he called, raising a finger to beckon the lord chancellor. The cowled man walked slowly forward, past his brothers, who watched on with wide and excited eyes. Beyond the walls of Highcliff Castle they could all hear the shouts and jeers of the crowd. The people had revolted.
If any good can come from my death, let it be that, thought Drew. Let these people be free from tyranny.
The robed Wererat stood beside King Leopold. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, bowing.
‘I believe you and the boy are already acquainted?’
‘We’ve never met,’ cut in Drew, before the Wererat could respond. ‘I know your brother Vankaskan, though, and I’m sure you’re as sick as he is.’ Drew had nothing to lose and saw no harm in mouthing off to the king and his lackey. What more could they do to him now?
‘Your memory fails you, boy,’ said Leopold. ‘It wasn’t that long ago, surely?’
A feeling of unease gripped Drew. What were they playing at?
‘My dear Lord Chancellor,’ continued Leopold. ‘Consider this a gift, my old friend, and a lesson. Never leave any loose ends. Always finish the task at hand.’
The Wererat stepped closer, raising a taloned black hand to point at Drew’s chest.
‘Those scars,’ he said, flicking his claws against one another so that they clicked skeletally. From within the darkness of the cowl his red eyes glinted malevolently. ‘They look old. Fancy some fresh ones?’
Drew’s jaw fell slack as he glanced at his chest. There were fresh wounds decorating his torso, but he knew what the Wererat was talking about. He looked at the three old scars across his breast, a badg
e that would forever remind him of the death of Tilly Ferran, the woman he would always love as his mother.
Vanmorten stopped in his tracks, raising a clawed hand to his hood. He tugged it back, revealing himself to Drew. The man was bald, his skin pasty and sickly, and his ruby eyes glowed with cruelty. Most shocking was the huge portion of flesh that was missing from the right side of his face. He was grotesque, his bare skull on show from his temple down to his jaw. The sweet stench of decaying flesh rolled off the unhealing wound in waves. He trailed his monstrous hand to the bleached bone of his face, scraping a black claw under the exposed eye socket.
Drew felt fresh nausea assailing his body. The farmhouse, his mother, the monster – it all rushed back. He hobbled backwards towards of a flight of stone steps that wound up along the length of the inner wall, ending on the battlements. The king laughed, clapping his hands cheerily as the Wererat stalked forward. The men of the Lionguard joined in raucously, waving and calling taunts to him as he retreated. Drew turned to struggle up the flagged stone steps, baskets and crates skittering out of his way as he tried to put distance between himself and the Wererat. He was on his hands and knees, the Wolfshead blade clattering along beside him as he pulled himself up the stairs on his stomach. He’d often dreamt of this moment – encountering the murderer who had killed his mother – and imagined what it would be like to take the life of the monster. Faced with the opportunity now, terror seized him and his nerves were failing. He was gravely injured, unprepared and drowning with despair. The Wererat kept advancing, up the staircase, ever closer to him.
Vanmorten wasn’t the tallest Werelord by any means, well under six foot. However, Drew remembered all too clearly the creature he’d faced at the homestead. There had been nothing small about him. Both of the Wererat’s arms were part changed now, thick, wiry black hair covering his forearms down to the horrible clawed hands. Drew, on the other hand, could feel his own insides twisting in on themselves, guts knotting and clenching as his own transformation spasmed and faltered. Tears rolled down his cheeks he struggled on, gripped with fear. His memories were racing; he could taste the monster’s blood in his mouth, back in the farmhouse.
‘What a shame,’ said the Wererat. ‘I would have thought that you’d have ironed out those awful growing pains by now.’ He tutted, shaking his misshapen head. ‘Vankaskan warned me about you. Said you were a wild dog, a mongrel. I have to say you’re doing your reputation proud, crawling away on your belly.’
Drew arrived atop the battlements, the Wererat just behind him. He stood over Drew, towering and in complete control.
‘I should have recognized you for what you were when we first met,’ he said, his voice grating like nails on a blackboard. ‘Living with that traitor in a windswept farmhouse. It makes perfect sense now. I spent the last fifteen years searching for that woman. I never let the scent go cold. It was unfinished business that needed to be taken care of.’ He ran a clawed finger under his throat in a slashing motion. ‘And it was.’
‘That was my mother!’ cried Drew. ‘She never harmed anyone; she was innocent. She was no traitor.’ He pointed to the three scars on his chest. ‘You did that to me, I’ll give you that. But I believe I had a hand in your spoiled good looks,’ he said, smirking at Vanmorten.
The Werelord’s eyes glazed over with a furious red fire. He arched his back violently and his robes tore to shreds, falling to the floor as black oily hair spread over his body. Drew retreated into a towering stack of boxes and barrels, freshly delivered from the Maelstrom by a winch with rope and pulley that now dangled idle in the wind. Drew’s ankle was on fire with pain, but he tried to push past it, pulling himself up on one foot, taking hold of a tall iron brazier that was full of burning coals for support. Below him in the courtyard he could see the king’s soldiers massed, looking up, waiting for the kill. He looked the other way, beyond the walls, and saw the rooftops of the city stretched out. In High Square the crowd was pointing up to him, craning to see Drew as he balanced on top of the battlements. But between him and the safety of the city was the sheer drop that had loomed beneath him on the drawbridge.
He did his best to stand his ground, but as the Wererat changed he could feel his legs weakening again. Stay strong, Drew, he told himself. Think of Ma.
A long, black tail whipped out towards Drew, sending him toppling sideways in the direction of the edge. Within the walls, the soldiers cheered. Arms raised high over his head, the Wererat leapt at him, jaws wide open and teeth snapping. Drew ducked and tumbled clear as Vanmorten smashed into the tower of stacked barrels and boxes, sending them crashing down on top of him.
King Leopold appeared at the top of the staircase, accompanied by the other three Rat King brothers. The Werelion watched on with interest as all three Wererats hissed, stepping closer, their red eyes starting to glow.
‘Back,’ snarled Vanmorten, climbing out of the splintered barrels. ‘The Dog is mine, my brothers,’ he said in a low guttural growl. His voice was almost incoherent, the monster taking over. Vanmorten dived. Clearing the distance between them in one bound, the Wererat bowled into Drew, sending the two of them smashing into the crenellated stone wall. More barrels and boxes clattered down around them, their broken contents bouncing off them as they wrestled with one another. Drew tried again to call the Wolf but he had no energy for the transformation, his hands doing all they could to hold the Rat back. Vanmorten was fast and wiry, squirming from Drew’s grip every time he tried to fend him off. His fight with the Lion haunted Drew anew, and he knew the end was close, but with no chance of rescue this time.
Snatching the youth up, Vanmorten held him aloft triumphantly before hurling him over the side of the parapets to his doom. Screams flared up from the city below. Before he was clear of the wall Drew threw his left hand out desperately, catching hold of the winch, sending it spinning wildly about, rope and tackle rattling as it whirled. He held on with a white-knuckled grip, his other limbs flailing and the Wolfshead blade flashing through the air as he clutched it tightly. Both boy and crane smashed into the tall metal brazier, then back into the fray, sending burning coals scattering across the stone walkway and over Vanmorten, flames leaping among the broken crates and barrels.
The three Wererat brothers now whooped and hissed excitedly, itching to pounce and join the fight. Drew was under no illusion: even if he were to somehow beat Vanmorten another would leap into his place. The Wererat shook the hot coals from his greasy hide.
Drew and Vanmorten circled one another, scrambling over the broken crates and upturned cargo. The fire was now all around them, devouring anything it came into contact with. Flames licked across the battlements, out of control, leaping on to the precious crates of goods that still lined the castle walls. Drew hobbled past the staircase and the Wererat’s snarling brethren, keeping his back covered whenever possible. Still the king watched on, fascinated by the spectacle. All the while Vanmorten closed the distance between them.
The spirit of Mack Ferran loomed on Drew’s shoulder, watching, judging. Is this how he, an elite soldier of the Wolfguard, would have fought a battle? On the retreat, backtracking, prolonging the inevitable? Was that how Drew should fight? Was that the way of the Wolf?
His mind set, Drew leapt into the fray.
8
The Fall of the Wolf
The two challengers met in a whirlwind of sword and claw as the soldiers cheered. This was what they wanted to see. But it wasn’t a lycanthrope that engaged Vanmorten. Ordinarily the Werewolf might have stood a chance, a toned and perfect killing machine. But this was Drew the young man who wrestled the beast, the Wolf within now spent. He lunged with the Wolfshead blade, striking at the Rat King repeatedly, occasionally connecting but for the most part missing. Drew was ravaged with injury and only hoped he might take Vanmorten with him before he died.
The Wererat’s jaws snapped in a blurred fury, lashing out blindly and tearing into the young man’s stomach. He grabbed Drew’s sword hand, crushing h
is grip until he dropped the Wolfshead blade with a clatter. Vanmorten strained to get to Drew’s underbelly, to bury his teeth into his softer flesh. Drew writhed, trying to get clear, but he was unprepared for the ferocity of the Wererat’s attack. Each time he tried to pull his head back, Vanmorten’s jaws closed round his hands and forearms, bringing up fresh gouts of blood with each bite.
Drew’s chest screamed with pain as the Wererat tore a strip of flesh clean off his ribs. With his left hand he tried to prise the creature clear, his fingers hooking under razor-sharp teeth. Pulling with what little strength he had left, he succeeded in throwing Vanmorten back briefly but at further cost. As the Wererat sprang back for a moment, the bare side of its skull shimmering in the light of the fires, it spat something at Drew that bounced off the boy’s chest. Drew gazed at the floor, horrified to see one of the bloody fingers of his left hand lying there. The Wererat chuckled as his brothers hollered with appreciation at the top of the stairs.
‘Eat you,’ he said, chest heaving with the excitement and thrill of the combat. ‘Bit. By. Bit.’
Drew felt sick to the core. He was lost – it was a massacre, and the monster was playing with him. His chest was carved with claw marks and his body was soaked with sweat. On his left hand a steady pulse of blood dripped from the wound. He fumbled with his right hand for the Wolfshead blade on the floor, tugging at the pommel before holding it up defensively.
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