Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  Arik grinned aggressively at the girl, baring all his teeth.

  ‘Secondly, sleep with one eye open, Wolf,’ continued Balk. ‘I haven’t seen you in the Furnace yet, but I suspect you can fight. Makes sense that your rivals will try to dispose of you in the night rather than risk death by tooth and claw beneath the sun.’

  Drew looked at the others at the table, shivering to think that any one of them might happily murder him.

  ‘And lastly,’ said Balk, whispering the final piece of advice. Drew leaned closer to hear the words. The big man’s breath was rancid. ‘You’ll find no friends here.’

  Without warning Balk smashed Drew’s face down into the bowl of gruel. His head bounced up back into the waiting fist of Arik. This time he flew back, the brother’s knuckles catching him across the jaw. Drew toppled off the bench, his body slumping into the baked earth as the brothers tossed their bowls on to him, laughing and clapping as they departed. Drew lay in a heap, shaken and angry.

  ‘Here.’

  He looked up and saw the open hand of Krieg. Drew eyed it warily.

  ‘Or stay down there like a dog. The choice is yours.’

  Drew snatched at the hand, the big fingers closing around his palm. Krieg lifted him as if he were a child, plonking him back on to the bench.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Drew sheepishly.

  ‘Don’t get used to helping hands, boy,’ grumbled the broad-nosed man. The Werelord opposite him chuckled. If Krieg was large, the other man was a giant – over seven feet tall, Drew guessed. He’d seen these two massive therians sparring in the ludus, hammering at one another with all their might.

  ‘You should give the Apes a wide berth,’ said the giant. ‘They single out the weak. They’re relentless once they get their teeth into you.’

  ‘You sound like you speak from experience.’

  ‘They’ve baited everyone here. They move on if you ignore them.’ He looked down the table to the girl at the end. ‘Taboo has yet to learn this lesson.’

  The young woman snarled. ‘They bite me, I bite back. They’ll learn soon enough.’

  The giant shook his head sadly. ‘Seems felinthropes are incapable of turning the other cheek.’

  ‘Felinthrope?’ said Drew, shuddering. ‘You’re a Catlord?’

  ‘What of it?’ she asked sharply. ‘You’ve met my kind before?’

  ‘I’ve had my run-ins.’

  A shaggy haired fellow the other side of Krieg leaned around the Rhino.

  ‘You might want to put your differences aside. Once you get into the Furnace, you might depend on one another.’

  Drew kept hearing mention of the Furnace. This was the arena where combat would take place, so named because of the battleground’s location, Scoria’s volcanic plateau.

  ‘Depend on each other?’ asked Drew. ‘I thought he wanted us to fight each another?’

  ‘That happens occasionally, if Ignus and his guests are in sadistic mood, but for the most part we therians are the main attraction,’ said the shaggy man. Even in human form, the fellow’s shoulders were oversized and stacked with muscles, his mass of dark brown hair framing his head like a matted thatch. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his lips wide and downturned, giving his face a sombre, thoughtful appearance. ‘The Lord of Scoria owns you, as he owns all of us. Our lives are over beyond the walls of the Furnace. We fight whatever they send out, be it human, beast or monster.’

  ‘Monster?’

  ‘You heard Stamm right,’ said Krieg.

  Drew had heard the roars of whatever animals Ignus kept for the arena. They were housed within the circular walls of the Furnace, out of sight of Drew and the other gladiators.

  ‘So we look out for one another?’ said Drew, struggling to make sense of the situation. The Apes, as the giant had described them, were clearly a wicked pair, and he doubted they’d spare a moment’s thought for Drew if he got into trouble in the Furnace. The girl, Taboo, seemed likewise unhinged, waiting to explode.

  The giant sighed, long and hard. He was around Bergan’s age, but time and the arena hadn’t been kind to him. He was heavily scarred, his leathery skin dusty and grey. His dark eyes seemed sad, their lids downturned.

  ‘You do what you must to survive. If you’re looking for wise words, you’ve come to the wrong table. If you survive your first fight, take it from there. Live for each day, that’s the only advice I have for you. Don’t make plans for the future.’

  The giant rose, nodding to Krieg and Stamm, before lumbering slowly away.

  ‘The Behemoth speaks the truth,’ came a voice from the far end of the table. The last of the seven Werelord gladiators was a lean, languid youth around Drew’s age, lying on his back on the bench. He drummed his fingers against his stomach, the sound like the rapping of a woodpecker’s beak, the flesh hard as teak.

  ‘The Behemoth? Is that his name?’

  ‘It’s the name we know him by. I’m Drake, by the way. Just so you know … when I have to kill you.’

  Drew chuckled, causing the others to look up. Even Drake leaned up from where he lay, twisting to stare as Drew’s laughter grew in volume. The young Wolflord slapped his hand on to the table top.

  ‘I get it,’ he said, wiping a tear from his eye and rising to his feet.

  ‘You get what?’ asked Stamm, confused.

  ‘All of this. I’m the new arrival. Some of you, like the Ape brothers, will be the cruel ones who’ll taunt me. Then there’ll be the one who I can’t get close to for fear of losing my throat – that’d be you, Taboo.’

  The woman remained seated, her face twisting angrily.

  ‘Which brings us to the old timers: you, the Behemoth and Stamm, right, Krieg? I guess you’ve been here the longest? That just leaves the sarcastic, smart-mouth loose blade at the end there …’

  Drake was already up off the bench and leaping across the table at Drew. Stamm and Krieg wrestled him back, while Taboo squealed excitedly at the conflict. Drew stood still, defiantly. He could feel the bile in his throat, thought he might vomit at any moment. His heart pounded, willing him to change, to embrace the Wolf. He couldn’t show them how scared he was, couldn’t let them see that they’d got to him.

  ‘I see only one smart-mouth here, Wolf!’ spat Drake. ‘Who do you think you are? Where’s your respect for your betters?’

  ‘I was prepared to give my fellow Werelords all the respect they deserved. You each threw that back at me. It’s good to know that therians are the same the world over; arrogance isn’t unique to Lyssia!’

  ‘You jumped up little turd!’ grunted Stamm, letting go of Drake to reach over the table himself now. Stamm’s huge mane of matted hair shook as the therian snatched at Drew, the young Wolf just dodging clear of a great dirty hand. Taboo punched the table with delight. Krieg found himself holding back both of his fellow gladiators now.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ said Drew, his confidence now shifting to a heartfelt plea. ‘You’re letting Ignus treat you like animals. It doesn’t have to be this way!’

  ‘Spare your breath, child,’ said Krieg wearily. ‘Many have uttered similar words and all are now turned to dust.’

  ‘Just so you know …’ said Drew, staring at the therianthropes. ‘I don’t intend to remain here, let alone die in this sun-baked pit in the middle of the ocean. I’ll be leaving Scoria as soon as the opportunity arises. It’s up to you whether you’ll join me or not. I lost a hand in Lyssia, was beaten, tortured and terrorized by my enemies. I need to return there, to help my people and settle some scores. You may be broken at the moment, but if you remember what it was that once made you great Werelords, come find me. I could do with some tooth and claw at my side.’

  With that, Drew turned and walked away, leaving the therians staring at one another, lost for words.

  On the outside Drew might have been the rightful king of Westland and the best hope for a free Lyssia, but on t
he inside he was still a farmer’s son from the Cold Coast. I just faced down a gang of Werelord warriors, he thought. They could kill me as quick as blinking. It took every piece of will and nerve on the shepherd boy’s part not to stumble as he went.

  6

  Blazetown

  His mouth was thick with the taste of smoke. Hacking up a glob of dark spittle, he smeared it on the dirty material of his red cloak. He shuddered, thinking about the homes they had burned, the villages they had sacked, all in the name of the cause; all in the hope of finding the Wolf.

  Trent Ferran looked at the burning farms around him. The sound of families sobbing mixed with the crackling of their blazing homesteads. He recognized the people, not so dissimilar from those he’d grown up around back on the Cold Coast; simple folk, for the most part, who busied themselves with tending their flocks and fields. But these people of the Longridings had aligned themselves with the enemy, siding with the Wolf and his allies. He would shed no tears for those who stood against the Lion.

  Nearby, a large group of townsfolk gathered in a huddle, a dozen Bastian warriors surrounding them. They looked pitiful, faces smeared with soot and tears, holding one another fearfully. Grazetown was one of the Longridings’ largest settlements, a glorified village compared to other towns in Lyssia. They had no defensive walls, and the small militia had resisted as best they could, but, vastly inexperienced compared to the Bastians and Redcloaks, the fight had been brief and bloody. The surviving militia had been shackled. Trent didn’t know what the plans were for them, but he hoped their families would be spared. He’d spilled enough blood for one night.

  Trent looked at the Wolfshead blade in his hands, the sword stained dark from battle; his father’s sword, found in the bloody ruins of Cape Gala, left behind by his traitorous brother, Drew. He wondered how many men Mack Ferran had killed with it in battle, fighting for the old Wolf Wergar many years ago. He thought back to the night he and his father had found his mother, murdered by Drew after he’d transformed into the beast. Trent and Mack had had no choice other than to join the Lionguard to seek revenge. The old man had spent his life trying to dissuade Trent from a military life. But with his wife so brutally taken from him, he’d had no qualms in letting Trent sign up alongside him. While Mack was fast-tracked into the Royal Guard of Highcliff, Trent found himself a new recruit for the Lionguard, his skill at horsemanship ensuring a position as an outrider for the army.

  When Highcliff was taken by Drew and his allies, Mack had been killed in the initial skirmishes, apparently at the hands of the young Wolf’s friends. Trent shivered to think about Drew, how he could have got somebody so wrong. They’d been as close as any brothers could be. He hadn’t known what kind of monster Drew really was. When the change came and the beast took over, Trent had been helpless to stop him, as Drew betrayed his family and destroyed his world. Drew had taken both his mother and father from him. How many others would the Wolf murder? Trent had to stop him. He was no longer afraid of death. The cause was just, the Wolf his mortal enemy.

  Sliding the Wolfshead blade into its sheath, he strode past the soldiers and their prisoners. Some nodded respectfully. He’d proven himself to his brother warriors now; there was no doubting his allegiance, his loyalty. Some had questioned whether he’d be able to stand up and be counted when the fight was on them; after all, he was the Wolf’s brother. Those concerns had been quashed since their forces had left Cape Gala and begun their search of the Longridings; he was every bit the equal of his comrades.

  An elderly woman broke from the huddle and rushed towards him, cradling a crying baby. She snatched at his cloak, bony knuckles clinging to the deep red material.

  ‘Please,’ she implored. ‘Winter approaches and you leave us with nothing!’

  The child wailed in her embrace. Its mop of curly blond hair was filthy, the face a mask of misery. The cries cut Trent to the bone. Here was one of the few innocents of Grazetown. Trent tore the woman’s hand loose.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said regretfully, pushing the woman away. ‘I can’t help you.’

  With that Trent strode away, the baby’s screams haunting him as he departed. He walked between the torched homes towards the tall wooden building at the town’s heart. This was the seat of power for Grazetown. The doors were wide open, soldiers carrying provisions and whatever else they could find from within – crates of food, barrels of wine, golden candlesticks, precious tapestries. He entered the building.

  The Lord’s hall had been stripped of all valuables. Bodies of slain militiamen lay about, including a few soldiers wearing the garb of the Horseguard of the Longridings. Trent stepped over the bodies as he made his way towards the soldiers gathered in front of the Lord’s Table. Two figures knelt before them.

  Lord Gallen and Lady Jenna, the masters of Grazetown, were broken figures. Gallen’s long grey hair had been shorn off, a sign of disrespect to the Horselords. His wife sobbed quietly at his side. To the rear of the table the remaining family members stood, helpless at the hands of the Lionguard. Sorin stood directly behind the Lord and Lady, a grin as wide as the Lyssian Straits filling his broken-nosed face. The Redcloak captain remained at loggerheads with Trent, having still not forgiven the young outrider for snatching Mack Ferran’s Wolfs-head blade from him back in Cape Gala. Sorin made no attempt to disguise his contempt for Trent, taunting him for being the ‘Wolf’s brother’ whenever the opportunity arose. He nodded at Trent, throwing him a filthy wink. Trent disliked the man, but he was an accomplished soldier.

  ‘I ask you again: where’s the Wolf?’ said Frost.

  The albino Catlord paced in front of the kneeling Horselords, every movement smooth, almost lazy. He carried his staff in his hands. Gallen lifted his gaze to Frost.

  ‘I’ve told you already, we don’t know his whereabouts. Since your people sacked Cape Gala my wife and I have been on the road, heading home. We were not party to the violence that took place there.’

  ‘Come now, my lord,’ said Frost. ‘This isn’t a difficult question, yet you insist on telling mistruths. You were seen fleeing the city with your fellow Horselords, those who had revolted against Lord Vankaskan.’

  ‘He was no lord to us!’ spat Jenna tearfully, instantly catching a look of warning from her husband.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. I know he was an unpopular choice as Protector of the city in my family’s absence, but he was your lord nonetheless. I do not seek a confession here; we know all we need to know from the noble Viscount Colt. He has very honourably told us exactly who participated in the revolt.’

  Jenna sneered. ‘That old nag is a traitor to the Longridings!’

  ‘Yet he sits on the throne in Cape Gala now – imagine that!’ The albino stopped pacing, swinging his staff behind his back and hooking it between his crooked elbows.

  ‘Where – is – the – Wolf?’ he said slowly.

  ‘We don’t know,’ sighed Gallen. ‘Brenn be my witness, we don’t know.’

  ‘You must know! You and your cohorts freed him!’

  ‘Drew was gone when we arrived in the courtroom. All that remained were the dead and unliving, thanks to your friend the Ratlord!’

  Trent trembled at the memory of the risen dead they’d encountered in Cape Gala, the handiwork of the Ratlord, Vankaskan. The dark magister hadn’t been content with killing his enemies in High Stable, instead raising them from death to torment them anew. Sorin withdrew his sword, the sound of the metal against scabbard causing the husband and wife to look warily over their shoulders. The sword shone, silver runes catching the light of the fires that burned beyond the hall’s windows. Trent watched Sorin. He’d seen him question people every day since they’d left Cape Gala. It always ended the same way.

  Gallen’s eyes widened.

  ‘I swear to you, we don’t know where he went!’

  ‘Wait,’ said Trent, interrupting the interrogation. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know the wher
eabouts of the Wolf. But there were others present who might.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Frost, gesturing to Trent to continue. Trent stepped forward.

  ‘The Wolf had friends in Cape Gala, did he not? Lady Gretchen of Hedgemoor – the Werefox was close to him, wasn’t she? She was with you when you left your city. Where did she head to?’

  Jenna nodded at Trent, tears flowing as she looked at him imploringly.

  ‘Wife, please –’ began Gallen, but she spoke over him.

  ‘If I tell you, how do I know you won’t kill me? You have slaughtered so many of our people!’

  ‘You have my word we shan’t harm you, my lady,’ promised Trent, his face grim. ‘Please, answer the question and this torment shall be finished.’

  ‘Calico,’ she stammered. ‘She heads to the coast.’

  Trent straightened, turning to Frost. ‘If she heads to Calico then the Wolf will follow.’

  ‘You’re sure of this, Ferran?’

  ‘He chased her all the way to Cape Gala. If he lives, he’ll find her, I guarantee it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Frost, spinning his staff. ‘Find the Fox, find the Wolf.’

  He banged the base of his staff on the floor, the metal-shod end striking the stone flags. An eight-inch spike projected from the top, the silver blade appearing in a flash. Frost turned the staff and lunged, the blade sinking deep into Gallen’s heart. Frost held it there as the Horselord spluttered, his wife and family screaming in horror. The Lord of Grazetown slid from the end of the silver spear, collapsing on to the cold floor. Frost flicked off the blood before striking the base once more and the blade disappeared from whence it came. He turned, putting an arm around Trent and walked away, as Lady Jenna wailed mournfully over the body of her dead husband.

  ‘You promised you’d spare us!’ she screamed as they left.

  ‘He said we’d spare you, my lady,’ called Frost as he stalked out of the room, the young outrider at his side. ‘Be grateful we’re men of our word!’

  Trent looked back at the Horselord’s family grieving around their slain father.