Trent’s hand caught a flat rock overhead, a few feet below a larger boulder that protruded from the scree bank. He didn’t have time to check its suitability, trusting it would remain in place as he hauled himself up. His muscles strained and burned as he trusted his body weight to the flat ledge. It remained in place, deeply embedded, allowing him to finally make progress.
‘It’s on you, Ferran!’
‘I can see it in the grass!’
Trent threw his right hand forward towards the larger boulder, his fingers scrabbling for purchase as he launched himself towards the higher point. The men cheered overhead, willing him on. This would put him clear of the grasses; give him the chance to find a route out while Frost regained his senses.
The boulder ripped free as it took Trent’s weight, the bank collapsing as he fell in a shower of dirt, rock and pebbles back to the base of the ridge. Trent spluttered, the dust cloud blinding and choking him as he struggled to rise from the debris. The grasses parted in front of him as a figure emerged.
Trent had expected a clawed paw to strike out; tear his throat, his stomach, put an end to his fight. Instead, a smooth, human hand was extended before him, as the lithe outline of Frost stood over him, naked in the moonlight. The albino Catlord flexed his fingers, beckoning Trent to take his offered palm. He rubbed his other hand against his injured eye, squinting and blinking as he focused on the terrified outrider.
‘Got me good there, Trent,’ said the felinthrope, smiling through bloodied teeth. He nodded at his hand. The Redcloak hesitantly took it as Frost hauled him to his feet.
‘A word of warning, Trent: never get in the way of a Catlord when he’s hunting game. Come, let’s return to camp. I owe you a hundred apologies.’
3
The Bloody Bay
At a glance he looked like any other sailor on ship’s watch in Denghi. A fringe of black hair poked out from the rim of his kash, the headdress popular with the men of the desert. A white scarf was wrapped around his face in the Omiri style, grey eyes peering out from the narrow slit, watching all who passed along the wharf. His bare torso was weather-beaten and tanned, three-quarter length white leggings covered his legs, leaving his bare feet exposed to the elements. His right hand rested on his hip, a shortsword lodged within the sash, while his left was missing, a basket handled trident dagger sitting on the stump in its place. He stood between the rails at the head of the Banshee’s gangway, apparently relaxed. There were few captains in Denghi who could boast the rightful king of Westland as their watchman.
The port was crowded with a variety of ships, greater in number than any Drew had seen before. All Hallows Bay, Highcliff and Cape Gala had been busy, bustling harbours, but there was a manic energy to Denghi. Griffyn had explained to Drew that this port in the Bloody Bay was the only truly neutral city in Omir. Pasha to the north was under the control of Lord Canan’s Doglords, while Ro-Shann to the south was home to Lady Hayfa, the Hyena. Both Canan and Hayfa were enemies of the true ruler of Omir, King Faisal of Azra, but each respected the neutrality of Denghi. It was the only place in Omir where one could find agents of all three factions rubbing shoulders with one another.
The choice of where they should land had been limited. As predicted, they’d passed patrolling Bastian warships while they slunk across the Sabre Sea. As the Banshee was known to the Bastians as a slaver, she was allowed on her way with little interference. Djogo and Shah had welcomed the captain of one such vessel aboard while the Werelords and small army of gladiators hid in the hold. They’d made their excuses for Kesslar’s absence, telling the Bastians that the Goat was sleeping off a barrel of wine below decks. The captain had warned Djogo to steer clear of the southern waters, due to the military activity in the Lyssian Straits. The Banshee had no other option than to head for Denghi.
The slave vessel was moored at the end of the port’s longest pier, a five-hundred-foot-long wharf that reached out into the Bloody Bay. Every inch of the pier was crowded with merchants, fishermen, sailors and ne’er-do-wells, haggling with one another over goods. The air was alive with sounds and smells: music from cantinas clashing with shouting traders, monkeys chattering, dogs barking, spices burning, meats cooking. Apart from one Bastian warship, anchored a little further round the bay, there was no sign of the military within the harbour. Lyssia may have been at war, but there seemed to be little conflict in Denghi.
Three figures approached the gangplank from the pier. Djogo came first, his face open, identity unhidden. He was known in Omir, with a fearsome reputation hard-earned. Denghi had been a regular stop-off for Kesslar down the years for buying and selling slaves. Behind came Griffyn and Krieg, their faces obscured by kashes. The trio traversed the gangway, Drew nodding as they passed. He followed them as they disappeared below, another sailor replacing him at the top of the planked walkway.
The Werelords gathered around the desk in the captain’s cabin, Djogo standing by the door. A crude map of Lyssia was carved into the tabletop, which the Goat had used to plot his raids around the continent. The allies of the Wolf now used it to plan their next move.
Griffyn cast his hand across the map wearily.
‘Lyssia is turbulent, more so than ever before,’ said the Hawklord, pinching his sharp nose between thumb and forefinger.
‘Turbulent?’ asked Drew. ‘Beyond that Bastian frigate, there’s no sign of war in Denghi.’
‘The battle rages beneath calm waters,’ said Krieg ‘It would appear the seaport has dodged much of Omir’s fighting, but that could change at any moment.’
‘You said Denghi was neutral.’
‘So it is. But news is that Lord Canan is allied with the Catlords,’ said the Rhino.
‘Cats and Dogs, unified?’ chuckled the Behemoth, the noise like a grinding millstone.
‘I know,’ agreed Griffyn. ‘Unlikely unions have sprung up across Lyssia. There is talk that Lady Hayfa has also agreed terms with Canan. Her forces are already mobilizing, ensuring that Faisal is surrounded to the north and south by powerful enemies, allied against him. They mean to attack Azra.’
‘Are they powerful enough to succeed?’ asked Drake.
‘If the Catlords lend their claws, this Desert King will die,’ said Taboo, sneering out of the porthole towards the Bastian warship.
‘Grim days indeed for the Jackal,’ said Drake.
‘And the rest of Lyssia?’ said Drew, keen to hear news of the west.
‘Broken,’ said Djogo. ‘Highcliff has fallen to the Catlords, your Wolf’s Council chased from Westland. Lucas sits on the throne in place of his dead father.’
‘Leopold, dead?’ said Drew, clearly shocked.
‘It’s said that Duke Bergan killed him,’ said the old Hawklord.
Good old Bergan. I knew he wouldn’t let us down if he got the chance.
Drew noticed Griffyn was avoiding eye contact. ‘What is it?’
‘The duke is dead, too, Drew; killed in his battle with Leopold.’
Drew stared at Griffyn’s bowed head, the old man’s words not sinking in straight away.
‘The whereabouts of your mother and others – Queen Amelie, Duke Manfred and Baron Hector – isn’t known, though Earl Mikkel was slain by the Doglords. The remains of your Wolf’s Council are being bandied about as Lyssia’s ‘most wanted’; there’s a price on their heads – and your own.’
Drew hardly heard Griffyn. Mikkel and his dear friend and mentor, Bergan, dead. He’d always felt certain he would see the Bearlord again, didn’t imagine that he would never get to make amends to the giant, bearded duke for fleeing Highcliff in secret.
Krieg tugged at the kash around Drew’s face.
‘It’s more important than ever we keep your identity secret, my friend,’ said the Rhino, before placing a consoling hand on the Wolf’s shoulder. ‘If Onyx offers riches in return for your head, you’ll have fewer friends than ever.’
‘Hector an
d Whitley,’ said Drew, his attention still on the Hawklord. ‘And Gretchen. Any news?’
‘As I said, Hector fled Highcliff when Onyx took the city. I couldn’t tell you if he’s alive. Lady Gretchen and Lady Whitley disappeared from Cape Gala after you were taken by Kesslar. Their whereabouts are unknown, but many of the Horselords fled Cape Gala to Calico on the coast, so your friends may have joined them. Duke Brand, the Bull, reigns there, his fortress city one of the few that makes a stand against the Bastians. A fleet of the Catlord’s warships gathers off the coast, blockading the Lyssian Straits.’
‘Have the other realms not come to Westland’s aid? What of Sturmland? The Barebones?’
Krieg raised his voice now as Griffyn shook his head. ‘The Lords of Sturmland have taken no side, while the Barebones are split – the Stags of Stormdale and Highwater stand in favour of the Wolf, while the Crows of Riven supposedly remain neutral.’
‘Supposedly?’
‘Their contempt for the other Werelords of the Barebones is famous – they want the realm for themselves. I find it hard to believe they aren’t involved in some way with the attacks on Highwater.’
‘Highwater’s been attacked?’ asked Drew.
‘The Staglord cities are without their lords, one brother dead, the other missing,’ replied Griffyn, pointing a bony finger at the mountain range on the map. ‘Even now Onyx moves his pieces into play, his army having taken the Dalelands and now laying siege to Highwater.’
‘But surely Highwater is full of civilians?’
‘Not so. Word reached the remaining Stags that a combined army of Bastians and Omiri approached. The innocents have evacuated south to the safety of Stormdale. Brenn-willing, the civilians will be spared this conflict and the battle will play out in Highwater. The men of the Barebones are a tough bunch, and Highwater is well protected: they’ll be prepared for a long siege.’
‘Is there nobody who can aid them?’
‘The Stags have no allies. The Bear is gone from Brackenholme, and Windfell to the south remains deserted,’ sighed Griffyn. ‘My homeland is no more than a ghost town while the Lion’s lackey, Skeer, rules the roost.’
Shah, at her father’s side, now spoke up. ‘Not for long. Skeer’s time is running out. When we return to Windfell, we’ll turn the traitorous old bird out of the nest and make it our own again.’
‘Brave words, Hawk,’ said Krieg. ‘But what hope do you and your father have of defeating whatever force awaits you in Windfell? Where are your fellow Hawklords in your time of need?’
Griffyn looked up from the table, his eyes settling upon Drew again, who stared straight back, shocked at the old warrior’s tide of bad news.
‘Where are the Hawklords, baron?’ asked Drew, his voice quiet as he struggled with his grief.
‘Scattered,’ replied Griffyn. ‘Many took on lives as normal, mortal men – like you, Drew, before you discovered your lycanthropy. Can you imagine? Forbidden to embrace the beast? Having your gift denied you? My people were broken just as Windfell was. They’re lost.’
‘Is there no way of reaching them?’
Griffyn wavered, his eyes narrowing. The Hawklord sat down, looking back to the map. His finger traced a line up the Silver River from Denghi, past Azra, to the Barebones, coming to a halt. The Werelords were silent as they watched him, waiting for Griffyn to speak. He closed his eyes and spoke.
‘There is a place most sacred to my people, the great mountain of Tor Raptor, ancient tomb of the Hawklords of Windfell. Only the just and rightful lord may safely enter the Screaming Peak.’
‘Screaming Peak?’ Drew asked.
‘It’s a cavern within Tor Raptor’s summit. When the stones are lifted, Tor Raptor screams to her children.’
‘Screams?’ Krieg was fascinated, as were the others.
‘It’s the one way in which the true Lord of Windfell may call the Hawklords home. It’s the only way.’
‘Sounds like a legend to me, old timer,’ sighed Drake. ‘We need more than wailing mountains to best our foes.’
The Hawklord opened his eyes, settling them upon Drew. The young Wolf nodded.
‘We need an army,’ he said.
4
Back from the Dead
‘Come in,’ called Count Vega, as a series of knocks on the door took his attention away from his desk. A heavily cloaked Duke Manfred entered the cabin, stamping his feet and clapping his hands, tiny snowflakes shaking loose from his shoulders.
‘Is it chilly outside, Your Grace?’
‘It’s as cold as Ragnor’s chin!’ grunted the duke miserably.
‘Interesting you mention old Henrik’s father. We’re close to the coast of Sturmland again by my reckoning, maybe a day or two out of Friggia. That business with the Sirens and then the White Isle almost did for us – thank Sosha that I was able to get my bearings.’
The two Werelords were silent for a moment, memories of their brief visit to the lonely island all too vivid. Vega reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle and glass, pushing them across the table towards Manfred.
‘There really was no need for you to take a watch you know. The last thing I need is a frozen Stag tumbling on to the deck, shattering into a thousand pieces. Would scare the lives out of my men.’
‘It’s the least I can do, mucking in with your crew,’ said the old Duke, unstoppering the bottle and pouring himself a glass with shivering hands. He threw it down his throat swiftly, barking a spluttering cough at the drink.
‘Friggia you say?’ muttered the duke. ‘Do you plan to stop there?’
‘I’d hoped we could make it straight to Roof. Perhaps we still can. Stopping in Friggia would be dangerous. It’s one of Slotha’s ports; we want to bypass it if possible. There’s no way Onyx’s forces could have reached this far north yet. We should get to Icegarden through the back door, so to speak.’
‘How’s Amelie?’
Vega smiled, a rakish grin breaking his handsome features. The captain of the Maelstrom had watched the tender friendship between Manfred and the queen blossom into something else. Neither of the therians would admit to such feelings – they’d deny it instantly – but there was no fooling the Sharklord.
‘I invited her into my company, but she still needs rest. It appears the encounters on the White Isle have left their scars upon her.’
Manfred nodded, staring back into the open stove, the flames warming his hands and soul.
‘And Hector?’ said the Staglord. ‘Any news?’
Vega ran a hand through his long, black hair, wincing at the thought of the young magister.
‘He still sleeps.’
‘Sleep is a good thing. I thought he was dead.’
‘He might have killed us all.’
‘How can you say that, Vega? The poor lad was attacked by that creature, wasn’t he?’
The count scratched at his scalp. ‘He was and he wasn’t.’
‘Don’t start with the cryptic talk, Vega!’
‘Yes, the creature attacked him, could easily have killed him. But I think he deliberately allowed the beast to assault him.’
‘How so?’ The duke sounded shocked.
‘We landed on the White Isle on Hector’s insistence. I suspect he wanted us to go there, knew what awaited us, and put all our lives in danger.’
‘How could he have possibly known what was on the island? That’s preposterous, Vega!’
‘I don’t know. This communing he’s confessed to carrying out, this necromancy – who knows what he’s tapped into? You can’t tell me Hector isn’t a changed man. He knew there was something on that island. His actions led to one of my men getting killed. It has something to do with dark magistry, I’m sure of it. I don’t have the answers, Manfred, but I believe Hector does.’
The duke scratched at the grey stubble on his jaw, saddened to hear Vega’s accusations, but he didn’t defend the
Boarlord. It was plain for all to see that the sickly Hector bore little resemblance to the happy young boy he’d first met ten years ago in the court of Redmire.
‘Does Lady Bethwyn still attend him?’
‘She has a soft spot for our magister,’ said Vega, staring at the cabin door, his thoughts distant. ‘She is another therian of the Dalelands after all. She seems a lovely girl, very trusting. I hope Hector doesn’t betray that trust.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
The count shook his head wearily and then smiled at the duke. ‘I’m thinking aloud, that’s all. He’s a complex character, our Baron of Redmire, Manfred.’
‘You worry too much,’ said Manfred, unfastening his cloak at last as his body warmed up. ‘He’s not as misguided as you suggest, my friend. Just a little misunderstood.’
Vega nodded but said nothing, his mind lingering on the memory of two bickering brothers on the staircase of Bevan’s tower, arguing over their father’s throne for a final, fatal time.
Bethwyn clenched the cloth in her fist, her knuckles turning white as she squeezed the excess water from it. Beyond the porthole, sleet raced past, blurring streaks of white against the pitch-black night. Bethwyn moved her hand over Hector’s head, gently mopping his brow with the damp cloth, the warm scented water settling across his clammy skin. For seven days and nights she’d kept vigil over the Boarlord, Queen Amelie relieving her of her other responsibilities in order to care for the magister. She wondered if his terrible fever would ever break.
By the time the rowboats had returned to the Maelstrom from the White Isle, many had assumed the baron was bound for a watery grave, few giving him any chance of survival. His throat was torn and his blood loss great, the wound refusing to heal as a normal injury would for a therian. Using what medicinal knowledge she and others had, Bethwyn had patched Hector up, cleaning, staunching and dressing the bite as best she could. She’d changed the bandage frequently over the following days, but the festering smell never went away. The Boarguard, Ringlin and Ibal, always lurked nearby, making Bethwyn uncomfortable. The tall one didn’t have a nice word to say about anyone, while the looks the fat giggling one gave her made her skin crawl. All the while the Boarlord had clung to the sliver of life, refusing to give up his fight.
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 16