The buildings in the city were wooden for the most part, though the Boarlord spotted the occasional stone structure as they raced by. Bones of all shapes and sizes featured everywhere, the skulls of wild beasts adorning doors, giant animal ribs and femurs woven into the rooftops, walls and windows of the houses. Clearly, this was a city of hunters. These people lived to kill.
The sledge jostled up the rutted avenue, slush and filth splashing off the road surface into the faces of the prisoners. Hector thought he might vomit, smearing the sewage from his face against Goyt’s shoulder at his side. The driver pulled hard at the reins, the dogs yelping and barking as they slowed, the sled grinding to a halt in the blackened slush before a great black building. Enormous whale jawbones formed an arch above the open doors of Slotha’s Longhouse. Two heavy-set guards stood either side of the entrance, each carrying a long barbed harpoon. The pair didn’t move as the driver jumped off the sled, waiting for the others to join him.
‘Goyt. Ibal. We’re here,’ Hector whispered. The fat Boarguard grunted a brief acknowledgement.
Hector gave Goyt a shove with his knee. The impact was enough to jar Goyt’s head, which lolled back from his chest with a crack. The old trapper’s face was blue, his eyes wide and frozen over.
Welcome to Tuskun, brother.
The Longhouse resembled the hull of an upturned ship, the interior an arched tunnel that disappeared into darkness. An enormous firepit dominated the hall, belching clouds of black smoke to the ceiling where it struggled to escape through a single, squat chimney. Guards like those at the entrance occupied the chamber, each carrying harpoons and axes and clad in sealskins and furs. Their faces were leathery, long drooping black moustaches and beards obscuring their mouths. Each of them stared intently at the five prisoners as they were marched towards the roaring fire, manacles jangling, and forced to their knees.
Hector looked back over his shoulder. Outside, beyond the open doors, he could hear the snarling of sled dogs as they tore into Goyt’s corpse, an unexpected reward for their hard run to Tuskun. Hector shivered, despite the heat, and turned back. Beyond the fire he saw a great mass advancing through the shadows. As she got closer her form was illuminated by the dancing flames. Her flesh was on show to all, between tattered leather strips pulled tight across her broad frame, the skin bulging between the straps. A bearskin robe was draped from her shoulder.
‘So,’ grunted Slotha, the Werewalrus, as she strode around the firepit and made her way behind her captives. ‘These are the prisoners the good people of Friggia have delivered to me? This is the fresh meat …’
I don’t like the sound of this, dear brother …
The sled drivers standing to one side bowed, their hands clasped together as if in prayer.
‘Go get yourselves fed.’
The three departed, apparently happy to be away from their queen, while a man who looked like a councillor unrolled a scroll. The vicious-looking Ugri warriors stepped forward, one standing in front of each prisoner as Slotha manoeuvred behind them.
‘What crimes?’ asked the therian lady, as she settled behind the first man to Hector’s right. The man’s eyes were fearful, darting from the guard to the councillor and then back to the magister.
‘Defamation of Your Majesty’s character in a tavern,’ said the councillor, sneering as he read the charge.
‘What did you say, man?’ whispered Slotha, momentarily lowering her head between the terrified man and Hector, her lips wobbling as she muttered into his ear. Hector got a whiff of the woman’s breath, as foul as a bucket of rotting fish.
‘I … I … but I …’ the man couldn’t speak, his whole body trembling as he began to shuffle forwards away from her. The warrior standing in front of him reached over, clasping the man’s hair in his fist and holding him firmly in his place. Hector could hear Slotha grunting behind him now, her bones cracking as her body shifted. He recognized the noise of a therianthrope on the change instantly. The councillor finished the stuttering man’s sentence for him.
‘He called you a “fat cow”, Your Majesty.’
The man’s eyes widened further as the wet sound of blades tearing through flesh cut through the air beside Hector. The Boarlord took a brief glance at the man as he spluttered blood from his trembling lips before the guard released his head, allowing the body to topple forward to the floor. Two great gashes were visible in the man’s back, his spine exposed where a pair of blades had sunk through his body, butchering him on the spot. With a grunt, Slotha moved behind Hector.
‘Next,’ she snarled, her voice deep and wet, her teeth grating.
‘Murder,’ said the councillor. ‘He and his companions killed an innkeeper and his man.’
Hector heard the queen shift her bulk behind him, as a warrior reached forward and took hold of his scalp in a dirty hand.
‘A moment, I beg of you!’ said Hector quickly.
The councillor arched his eyebrows as Hector struggled in the warrior’s grasp.
‘The charge is quite straightforward; you apparently admitted to your crime in Friggia.’
‘I believe Her Majesty would benefit from the full story!’
‘Spit it out, then!’ she said, smacking her lips.
‘I’m Baron Hector, the Boarlord of Redmire. I’m one of the Wolf’s Council.’
The councillor looked astonished as Slotha grabbed Hector by the shoulder and spun him about, his hair tearing from his scalp as he turned to face the queen of Tuskun.
‘Oh, but what good fortune!’ she roared, clapping her hands together. ‘Sosha smiles up at me!’
Nothing had prepared Hector for the sight of the monstrous Werewalrus. The scraps of clothing that had clung to her had been ripped away, her pasty, pale skin now mottled dark brown and covered in calluses and warts, her stocky legs having transformed into huge, flat flippers. Her clawed fingers were long and webbed, her hands wide and wobbling as she clapped them together. Her long, greasy hair hung down her back, neck and lips bristling with oily whiskers. A pair of yard-long tusks protruded down from her top lip, ivory blades that dripped crimson with the dead man’s blood.
‘You have the look of your father,’ she grunted, clawing at his face with a flippered hand. ‘He was an ugly pig, too!’
You have my permission to roar at the irony, chuckled the Vincent-vile to Hector.
‘Hold him still,’ she gushed excitedly as her warrior grabbed his head once again. ‘I want to look into this one’s eyes while I run him through. Imagine Prince Lucas’s joy when I deliver a spitted Boarlord to him!’
‘Wait!’ shouted Hector, as Slotha raised her tusks, ready to strike his chest. She paused, waiting for him to speak.
‘I know there’s a price on my head, but grant my sorry life a few more days, I beg of you, Your Majesty. Killing me would be too easy – the prince would prefer it if you delivered me alive, I can promise you. I know him, I served him for years. Let him do what he will with me. I guarantee he’ll be doubly grateful …’
Slotha looked from Hector to her councillor. The man shrugged, leaving the decision entirely to her whim.
‘You say I should let you live and go to Highcliff?’
‘Hand me over as a gift alive rather than dead. I have information that will aid the Catlords in their war.’
‘Tell me your information then, Piglord.’
Hector managed a thin smile.
Roll the bones, brother!
‘I shall not. My information is for Prince Lucas and him alone. Deliver me to him and your reward shall be greater than you could possibly imagine, Lady Slotha.’
‘That’s Queen Slotha,’ she snorted.
‘I know,’ said Hector as the warrior’s grip on his hair tightened. ‘The queen of the North and the king of Westland; can you imagine what you might discuss together?’
Slotha smacked her lips as if savouring a previously unknown tas
te. Hector kept his eyes fixed on her.
She’s taken the bait, Hector! Well done!
‘I deliver you alive to Highcliff?’
‘Myself and my two men.’ Hector gestured to Ringlin and Ibal at his side with a quick glance.
‘Very well,’ said the Werewalrus, shuffling past the two rogues who breathed audible sighs of relief at their temporary pardon. She settled behind the last prisoner, who was afforded no such kindness.
‘That one’s a thief, Your Majesty,’ said the councillor, answering her unvoiced question.
‘But remember, Piglord,’ she said, rearing up behind the bound man as he knelt before her. The Ugri warrior held the prisoner’s head as he kicked out, trying to roll clear. She lunged down fast, the tusks puncturing the man’s back and disappearing up to her gums. The blood erupted as she tore them free.
‘No tricks.’
Hector bowed on his knees, his heart near exploding.
‘Ready the Myrmidon,’ said the Walrus of Tuskun. ‘We sail to Highcliff to meet the prince.’
1
Two Rivers
It would be hard to imagine a more unusual party of people than the one that disembarked from the Banshee at the border town of Two Rivers. Drew led the way, the mountainous figure of the Behemoth following, over seven feet of towering muscle behind him. The Weremammoth carried an enormous stone mallet across one shoulder, a weapon the strongest man would struggle to lift with both hands. Following him came the crooked figure of Baron Griffyn alongside the Catlady, Taboo.
Krieg awaited them at the head of the docks, his spiked mace swinging from his hip, grimacing as they approached. A chill wind blew through the ramshackle harbour, sending sand through the air like a shower of broken glass.
‘Good to be off that wretched boat, isn’t it?’
‘It’s good to be on our way again,’ said Drew, the passing townsfolk eyeing them suspiciously. ‘I just hope our friends are safe in Azra. Did you find horses?’
The Rhino nodded, and set off up the street, Drew at his shoulder and the others behind.
‘How’s the old man?’ asked Krieg, without looking back.
‘He misses her, which is understandable, but she has Djogo. She’ll be fine.’
Faisal had insisted the Hawklady and Djogo remain behind in Azra as his guests. Effectively, the Jackal was holding her to ransom; the guarantee that the Hawklords would return and fight for him, honouring the promise Drew made on their behalf. There had never been any doubt in Drew’s mind that the Hawklords, if they could summon them, would aid them, but that clearly hadn’t been the case for Faisal. Considering the previous visit of Wolf and Hawk to Azra years ago, the king had fair reason to feel that way.
Faisal had passed a decree that very night, granting every single slave in the city of Azra his or her freedom. While the therian lords of the city had accepted this without challenge, the merchant classes had been horrified; it would take all of Faisal’s political know-how to put their minds at ease in the following days. Delighted, Drew was in no doubt that the Jackal would bring his people in line; overnight their militia had swelled by tens of thousands. Suddenly, the odds for the people of Azra against the three advancing armies didn’t seem so grim.
Furthermore, the hundred gladiators who had journeyed from Scoria had joined Djogo and Shah in the desert city. The men were an elite fighting force who could be put to good use by Faisal, under Djogo’s command. There was no need for Drew to drag his small army up into the Barebones. It seemed a far sounder plan to leave them in Azra to aid the Jackal in any way they could. As shows of goodwill went, it was much appreciated by Faisal, who immediately set them to work alongside his own soldiers, training and drilling the civilians and former slaves in preparation for battle. A skeleton crew had remained on the Banshee, transporting the remaining therians to Two Rivers.
A prospecting town, Two Rivers was the last place a ship the size of the Banshee could navigate up to on the Silver River. Being on the border of the Desert and Mountain Realms, it was a wild old town with little law or order. Home to gem diggers, bounty hunters, the crazed and the criminal, Drew hoped they could pass through the town quickly. A run-down avenue ran through its centre, low buildings lining the pitted road on either side. Trading posts and taverns made up the majority of businesses, jostling for the attention of passers by. The group kept their heads down as they followed Krieg, aware they were being watched, the townsfolk making no attempt to hide their interest in the travellers. Krieg led them to the end of the street, marching up to a squat looking stable block with paddocks attached. The wind stirred up dust devils, sand whipping through the air as they hurried towards the horse trader’s establishment.
As they approached, Drew pulled up short, placing his hand on Krieg’s shoulder.
‘You’re sure he can be trusted?’
‘As trusted as anyone can be in a fleapit like Two Rivers. Why?’
Drew shivered as he tried to shake off the uneasy feeling. ‘No matter, Krieg; lead on,’ he said as the Rhino entered the building.
The stable was split down the middle by a filthy path, camels on one side and horses on the other. A bearded man in brown robes emerged down the passage, dragging a sack of grain behind him. He looked up, recognizing Krieg immediately.
‘These your friends, then?’ he said in a thick, Omiri accent.
The man straightened, looking past Krieg towards his companions. His eyes seemed a little too large for his features, as if his face had frozen mid-choke and refused to return to normal.
‘The horses,’ said Krieg, wasting no time on banter. The Rhino unstrung a pouch from his hip, jingling it in his hand. ‘I have the money, as agreed.’
‘Is that everything?’ said the big-eyed man, watching Krieg weigh the bag of coins. Krieg tossed it, the trader catching it mid-air.
‘Count them, if you distrust me,’ said the Rhino, his voice serious.
Drew took a moment to look around the interior of the building while the horse trader rooted through the money pouch. It was the largest structure they’d seen in Two Rivers, with a hayloft above that ran around the entire stable. Bright though it was outdoors, it was dark in here, a couple of lanterns kept the filthy walkway illuminated, but all else was shrouded in darkness. Taboo and Griffyn held a quiet conversation at his back, while the Behemoth stood to the rear, staring back at the doors.
Drew still felt on edge. Although the atmosphere in the stable was heavy with the smell of captive animals, a gut feeling told Drew that something wasn’t right. Not wanting to alarm the horse trader, Drew let a little of the Wolf in. His heightened sense of smell revealed something else beyond the stench of animal faeces. He smelled alcohol, sweat and steel. His ears pricked as he concentrated, listening beyond the snorting horses and spitting camels. Floorboards creaked in the loft above.
‘Do you work here alone?’ asked Drew.
The man looked up, lips smacking nervously as Drew’s eyes remained fixed upon the shadowy first floor overhead.
‘Indeed. Why do you ask?’
‘It sounds like you’ve rats in your hayloft, in that case. Big ones, judging by the noise they’re making up there.’
Instantly Krieg had his spiked mace out, while Taboo raised her spear. Drew kept his eyes focused upon the hayloft, catching sight of movements now as would-be-assassins darted through the darkness.
‘What treachery is this?’ spat Krieg. ‘I make a deal with you in good faith …’
The trader’s eyes widened further as Krieg stepped towards him, twirling the mace in his grasp, the spikes spinning menacingly.
‘They … they saw you come!’ stammered the man, his eyes looking up. ‘This isn’t my …’
The trader collapsed to the floor, unable to complete his sentence, the feathered flight of an arrow sticking out of his throat as the coins showered down on top of him. An arrow hit Griffyn’s back, while Kr
ieg crashed through the partition fence, an arrow protruding from his chest. Instantly the therians dived into the pens, camels and horses panicking at the intruders in their enclosures. Taboo had found a ladder on the rear wall, leaping halfway up in one bound. She thrust her spear up through the hatch, a foe screaming as it struck home.
Feet hammered along the walkway above, the ambushers scrambling to find better positions from which to strike. Drew stayed close to Griffyn, supporting the winded Hawklord as they dashed for cover. A horse whinnied beside him as an arrow punched into its flank with a wet snap. It kicked out, striking another animal at its side, the pen transformed into a deadly arena.
‘They could have avoided this,’ said Drew, the Hawklord grimacing as they ducked behind a post.
‘It appears they’d rather fight,’ said Griffyn. ‘There must be quite a reward on your head!’
Drew pulled the arrow from the Hawklord’s back, the tip embedded in the leather strapping of his breastplate. Griffyn grunted as the pair stared in shock at the shining silver arrowhead.
‘These are no regular bandits, young Wolf.’
‘Stay here!’
A mountain of crates lined the rear of the horse enclosure, providing Drew with a means to reach the first floor. He changed as he bounded, feet elongating into grey, clawed paws as he raced up the stacked boxes towards the hayloft. Bursting on to the dark landing, his longsword arced through the air, striking a drawn bow from an assassin’s hands. The man in black reached for a scimitar on his hip, but was already flying through the air, the Werewolf catching him in the chest with a kick. The attacker disappeared over the hayloft rail, vanishing into the enclosure below.
Another black-kashed warrior lunged at Drew, his silver scimitar tearing a cut down the Werewolf’s back. Drew roared, bringing his trident dagger around to disarm the man on his following blow. The scimitar flew from the man’s grasp as Drew’s longsword struck home.
On the opposite hayloft Drew caught a glimpse of Taboo, the Weretiger cornered, jabbing with her spear and slashing with her claws. She was outnumbered three to one, and if her enemies had silver weapons she was in terrible danger.
Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Page 24