Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  Obliss looked up as the shadow descended, the Werewolf landing on him from on high. His companion having taken Drew’s attack, Haxur tried to skewer the beast on his spear, a blow that would surely find its home in the therian. Instead he halted mid-thrust, the crack of Djogo’s whip signalling the attack. The whip coiled around Haxur’s throat, catching hard and fast. Djogo rose in the dust, pulling hard, the throttled man spinning towards him, spear flying from his grasp. Pirouetting across the Furnace floor, Haxur whirled inexorably towards Djogo to be caught in the slaver’s arms.

  Haxur’s eyes widened as he looked down at his chest, the blunt banquet knife piercing deep through his breastplate and into his heart. Djogo let the body fall to the floor as Drew rose from the unconscious form of Obliss.

  The crowd were silent for a brief, dreadful moment, before bursting into rapturous applause. Drew stood opposite Djogo, still changed, chest heaving, as he weighed the slaver up. Djogo teetered, torso bloody, ready to collapse at any moment. He fell forward as Drew lunged, changing as he moved. Back in human form, Drew caught the slaver as they landed, the beast receding as the guards of Ignus emerged from the pens, advancing towards the combatants.

  ‘Thank you,’ panted the one-eyed warrior through bloodied teeth.

  ‘Don’t thank me yet, Djogo,’ said the young therian as the guards surrounded them. ‘The enemy of my enemy is still my enemy.’

  4

  The Bold Thunder

  The crew of the Maelstrom had never seen anything like it. The fog that surrounded the ship was the thickest they’d ever encountered, a great bank of sea mist that swallowed everything in its path. The crew stood around every rail, squinting into the gloom. Men muttered prayers, some chanting, others whispering, the atmosphere sinister. A dread sense of foreboding filled the soul of everyone. Nobody, human or therian, was immune.

  It had come on fast. The ship’s lookout boy, Casper, spied it easily enough, pointing it out to Count Vega and allowing the Maelstrom to change course and avoid it. But somehow the fog had still intercepted them. Few ships sailed through the Sturmish Sea, its grim reputation making it a body of water to avoid whenever possible. The sails were lowered as they cut their speed, at the mercy of the mysterious fog. With Figgis holding the wheel, Vega, Duke Manfred and Baron Hector all stood on the foredeck, looking out into the mist.

  ‘Ship ahead!’ cried out a crewman as a black shape appeared out of nowhere. Figgis turned the wheel hard, bringing the Maelstrom about to avoid a collision. Manfred and Hector backed away as Vega stood firm on the prow, feet apart and legs locked as the other vessel drew ever closer. The Maelstrom ran beside it, the distance between the ships a matter of mere feet. To their relief, the other ship wasn’t in flight, simply drifting on the currents.

  The ship’s name painted down the side proclaimed her to be Bold Thunder. She was one of theirs, another escapee from Highcliff that had carried civilians when they’d fled. This was the first ship from their tiny fleet the Maelstrom had encountered.

  ‘Grapples and ropes!’ cried out Vega as he paced along the deck, Manfred and Hector close at his heel. Lines were hastily thrown, securing the Bold Thunder to the Maelstrom and bringing her alongside.

  ‘Captain Crowley!’ called out Vega, hailing the other ship’s skipper. He waited for an answer, but none came – the ship appeared deserted. The sea marshal turned to look at his puzzled companions.

  ‘Perhaps they’re all sleeping in their cabins,’ said Vega with a grim smile, unsheathing his cutlass. ‘After me, lads – and stay on your toes!’

  With that, Vega placed his blade between his teeth before taking hold of a mooring rope and beginning to drag himself across. Hector looked at Manfred worriedly.

  ‘I think he means us to follow, Hector,’ said the Staglord, taking hold of the rope and clambering after the count.

  Hector watched him go, his insides knotting, hands sweating inside the leather gloves.

  Well? Aren’t you going to follow, brother? Afraid of what you’ll find?

  The young magister ignored the vile’s taunts, stepping up on to the rails and taking a grip on the rope. It bounced in his grasp as Manfred disappeared into the fog ahead. Hector threw his legs around it, letting his body swing until he was suspended beneath it, gripping with his arms and legs. The waves lapped ten feet below him between the two ships, clapping against the hulls in anticipation of his falling.

  Hector glanced back before setting off, spying Queen Amelie and Bethwyn at the edge of the rail. He’d summoned enough courage to speak to Bethwyn in the last few days – only small talk, light banter that didn’t lead anywhere – but it was a start. His life felt empty without his friends: Drew, Gretchen and Whitley were lost to him, possibly forever. A blossoming friendship with Bethwyn might fill that void.

  ‘Be careful,’ whispered Bethwyn, her eyes never leaving him.

  His heart beat faster now, the weight of expectation having doubled suddenly with this unexpected audience. He just needed to get across without making a fool of himself. He began to move.

  At the middle point between the ships, the rope sagged, swinging wildly. Hector closed his eyes, inching his hands forward one over the other, dragging his knees onwards while gripping on for dear life. He could swear he felt the waves slapping his back, could imagine the horrors lurking in the depths waiting to take a bite. Nearing the Bold Thunder he found his grip slipping. Panic rising, he feared he might fall at any moment.

  A firm hand took hold of his jerkin, hefting him up through the air, away from the rope, and down on to the deck of the Bold Thunder in one motion. His legs wobbled as he steadied himself. Vega patted his shoulder.

  ‘Are you all right, Hector?’ asked the count.

  ‘I’m fine thank you, Vega,’ he replied, trying to sound confident while his trembling voice betrayed him. He looked around as more men from the Maelstrom joined them.

  The Bold Thunder was a ghost ship.

  There was no sign of anyone on deck, the wheel unmanned and the sails flapping idly in the faint breeze. The men fanned out, calling to one another, remaining in earshot when the fog threatened to hide them from their shipmates. Hector unsheathed his dagger, holding it warily before him. The Lord of Stormdale pulled a lantern from its housing on the main mast, and taking out his flint and steel he set about lighting it.

  ‘Have you seen anything like this before, Vega?’ asked the Staglord as he worked on his tinderbox.

  ‘Very rarely; sometimes piracy can be the cause of an abandoned ship, but more often than not the pirates take the ship.’ He smiled at his fellow therians. ‘I’ve done it myself!’

  Hector walked towards the cabin hatch that led below decks. He flexed his left hand, the black skin of his palm rippling beneath the glove as he held it towards the handle. A hand on his shoulder caused him to jump.

  ‘You want me to go first?’

  It was Vega again; ever present, shadowing his every move.

  And you thought I was bad? said the vile in his ear.

  Hector turned to the captain as assuredly as he could. ‘You’re welcome to accompany me, Vega.’

  The sea marshal looked impressed, gesturing to the door. ‘After you, dear baron.’

  Hector grasped the handle and opened the door. The dark below was impenetrable. Hector shivered, his courage deserting him. He was about to turn and suggest Vega lead when the lighted lantern was offered by Manfred.

  ‘Here, Hector. Looks like you’ll need light down there.’

  Hector smiled, gratefully taking the lantern before proceeding down into the belly of the Bold Thunder. He heard the footsteps of the following Werelords, relieved he had them at his back. The stairs led down into a cramped corridor that ran to the officers’ cabins at the rear, and forward to a cargo hold.

  ‘The Bold Thunder’s a merchant ship,’ said Vega, ducking as he entered the corridor behind Hector. ‘Crowley’s bee
n a regular trader along the Cold Coast since I was a boy. He’d never leave his ship, not under any circumstances. This is his home, his life.’

  He slapped the wall as if to emphasize the point, as Hector entered the cargo hold. Crates and barrels were lashed down against the walls, provisions that had been stowed in the hold before the violence had broken out in Highcliff. Crowley had taken as many civilians on to the Bold Thunder as possible, crowding them below decks as the ship had set sail. Empty bedrolls littered the floor, with not a single body occupying them.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ gasped Hector.

  ‘It’s like a tomb down here,’ said Manfred.

  ‘A tomb without any bodies,’ added Vega quietly.

  Manfred pulled his cloak tight around his chin. ‘I don’t like this one bit.’

  Hector inspected the lashed-down goods, checking what Crowley had been shipping. Manfred followed, reading the words aloud that marked each crate and barrel.

  ‘Grain, vegetables, wine; there’s enough here to feed the Maelstrom for a couple of weeks. Why would they leave it behind?’

  ‘Crowley wouldn’t,’ said Vega, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. He headed towards the cabins. Manfred and Hector hurried along behind him.

  The captain’s quarters were well furnished. A leather-backed chair swivelled lazily behind his huge desk; ledgers, sea charts and maps remained unfurled on the table, open inkpots holding them in place. Vega skirted the desk and went over to the bunk. Rummaging beneath it he found a chest. He pulled out a knife and jammed it into the lock. With a crack the box opened, revealing gold, silver and personal artefacts; all of Crowley’s worldly possessions. Vega stared up at his companions.

  The three men returned above deck, where the Maelstrom’s away party had gathered. Vega addressed the group.

  ‘There are goods below that we need aboard the Maelstrom. Whatever happened to the crew and civilians of the Bold Thunder, we can’t neglect the fact that we left Moga in a hurry, without anywhere near the provisions we required.’

  Vega couldn’t help but glance Hector’s way at the mention of the disastrous encounter in Moga. Hector simmered silently.

  Any opportunity to stick the knife in … and twist …

  Hector looked at the gaudy dagger he always carried with him – the dagger that had ended Vincent’s life. Thin wisps of black smoke materialized before his eyes as the vile’s thin hand appeared to claw at its hilt.

  Vega continued, aware that his men were uneasy aboard the abandoned vessel. ‘I know none of you wants to be on this ship any longer than need be, so be quick about it. Peavney, you’re in charge.’

  One of the Maelstrom’s mates stepped forward as the three Werelords paced back towards the mooring ropes that held the two vessels together. Hector spied Ringlin and Ibal among them, lurking at the rear of the bunch. Both men nodded to their lord.

  Seems they’ve found their respect again, whispered the vile. But for how long, brother?

  Hector skidded on the deck, his legs threatening to fly from beneath him, his dagger flashing wildly as he steadied himself.

  The duke and the count caught him, ‘Careful, Hector,’ grinned Vega. ‘You could have someone’s eye out.’

  The vile hissed in Hector’s ear. Every barbed word the Shark says hides a meaning just for you, brother!

  ‘I know what I’m doing, thank you, Vega.’

  Vega didn’t respond to the riposte, instead crouching and inspecting the deck. He traced his hand across the timber planks where Hector had slid, his fingers slick with brackish slime. He flicked it, the gelatinous liquid spattering on to the deck a few feet away.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Manfred, frowning.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Vega, the mischief in his voice replaced by concern. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  5

  Recrimination and Recuperation

  The Lizard lounged in his stone chair, alone, staring at the open balcony that overlooked the Furnace. The last of his guests from yesterday were finally gone, having remained during the night to share in the debauched entertainment. His brothers had retired to their own quarters in the palace, nursing their heads and stomachs after their excesses.

  The rap of a spear on the door, followed by it swinging open, brought the Lizardlord’s attention back to the rear of the hall.

  ‘Count Kesslar and Lady Shah, my lord,’ the guard announced.

  ‘Send them in.’

  The guard stepped into the chamber, followed by the Goatlord and the raven-haired lady, and three more warriors fell in behind them. They came to a halt before the metal grate. The guards stood to the side of the pair, not retreating from the chamber. Kesslar eyed them, stroking his grey beard between bony knuckles.

  ‘You took your time,’ snapped Ignus, reaching down beside his throne to pick up a terracotta bowl. He scooped up a handful of yellow oil out of it, slapped it on to his chest and began to massage it into his skin. Shah wrinkled her nose at the sight.

  ‘I didn’t realize we were to come rushing like your lackeys, Ignus. We are still guests, are we not?’

  ‘For the time being,’ said the Lizardlord, the threat evident in his voice. ‘I plan another contest in two days’ time, and don’t want the same debacle we witnessed yesterday. What guarantees do you give that this Wolf will cause no further chaos?’

  ‘None, Ignus. He’s troublesome, but it’s not my place to break him to your will. That’s your job. I simply supply the raw meat.’

  Ignus threw the bowl at Kesslar, the pot shattering against his shoulder and sending the hot oil over his face. The Goatlord cried out, wiping the amber liquid from his eyes.

  ‘Do not dare to enter my home and tell me how I should run my affairs, Goatlord! You made a mockery of my arena with your incompetence! I’ll make a gladiator out of the Wolf, mark my words, but our business isn’t finished. You still owe me for the shame you brought to the Furnace.’

  ‘I owe you nothing,’ said Kesslar.

  The guards shifted at his words, spears twitching menacingly. A jet of sulphurous steam erupted from the grate, as if the volcano was adding its voice to the proceedings. Ignus pointed a clawed finger at the slave trader, his face contorting as his rage rose.

  ‘Say that one more time, Kesslar, and you’ll pay with more than blood, flesh and bone!’

  The Goatlord fell silent, smearing the last of the oil’s residue from his face on to his sleeve. Shah remained silent, watching the guards warily.

  ‘Good,’ said the Lizard, reclining on his throne once more. ‘I think you know what I ask of you.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ muttered Kesslar.

  ‘Speak up!’

  ‘He’s yours once more!’ shouted the Goat. ‘Do with him as you please!’

  Shah suddenly understood and became animated. ‘You can’t do this, he’s a free man!’

  ‘Be quiet, Shah,’ snapped Kesslar. ‘Have you not yet learned? None who are in my service are truly free. What part of being a slaver do you not yet grasp?’

  ‘But he’s your friend! This is unfair!’

  ‘This is business,’ said the Goat, glaring at Ignus.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Kesslar,’ said the Lizardlord. ‘And I’d mind your tongue if I were you, Shah. You forget that I hold your father still. His wings may be clipped but I can do an awful lot more if I so please!’

  Shah looked between them, unable to decide which she despised more.

  ‘If you’re done with me, I would like to retire to my room,’ she said, her voice raw with anger.

  Ignus nodded and waved a hand dismissively. Kesslar snatched at Shah’s arm as she turned to depart.

  ‘Do not do anything foolish, woman. I’d hate to lose you, too.’

  Shah tugged herself free, tearing her sleeve. She took a staggering step away from Kesslar before storming from the foul hall.

  Drew
stared into his bowl, his stomach knotting as the grains shifted. He deftly picked out the tiny grubs from the two-day-old rice, flicking them away before proceeding to eat. His insides rumbled, hunger ensuring his search for unwanted visitors in the meal was short-lived. If there were any more of the creatures in the gloopy mush, they’d be dead soon enough once they hit his belly.

  He kept his head down, not wanting to attract further attention. It had been a chaotic time since his appearance in the Furnace. Many of the human gladiators had given him a wide berth, wary of what he was capable of after defeating three of their best. Galtus and Obliss glowered at him from across the ludus, still mourning the death of Haxur and blaming the young Werewolf for his part in the gladiator’s demise. Galtus’s right leg was strapped in a splint, and the man never took his eyes off Drew.

  The therians had been less evasive, Arik and Balk wasting no time in continuing their taunts. Drew gave them nothing, taking their insults. The remaining Werelords had kept a respectful distance, although he’d sparred in the ludus with the Rhino, Krieg and the Buffalo, Stamm. He’d trained alongside them for hours that afternoon, trading blows, parrying and wrestling, but not a word had passed between them. Presently the pair sat down at Drew’s table.

  ‘You fought well in the Furnace the other day,’ said Stamm from beneath his shaggy mane. For once, the Buffalo’s sombre face seemed a touch less miserable. His sad eyes twinkled as he looked at Drew with newfound respect from beneath his thick fringe.

  ‘When you finally fought, that is,’ laughed Krieg. ‘I thought they were going to finish you in the pen before you got out of the gate!’

  Drew wondered whether this was the precursor to more insults like the cruel games of the Ape brothers. Neither therian showed signs of aggression. Indeed, Stamm was now smiling, his thick matted hair shaking as he rocked in his seat, his laughter low and rumbling.