Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3)

by Curtis Jobling

  His stay in Windfell should have been a quiet, relaxed affair. Let the rest of Lyssia crash and burn; he and Skeer would remain in the Barebones, looking down on the chaos below, ready to join the fray once the victor was decided. Or, failing that, remain hidden away while all their foes slayed one another – it made little difference to Kesslar. Instead, the old wretch Griffyn had somehow sprouted a new pair of wings and flown back to Lyssia, even making it as far as the tomb on Tor Raptor. Kesslar couldn’t hear the screaming as Skeer had described it, but he didn’t doubt his friend for one moment. Something was coming.

  The corridors were near deserted by the time Kesslar bounded down towards the double doors that led into the courtyard. He was too busy grunting, the box on his back heavy with treasure, to pay attention to what lay ahead. At the last moment he looked up, stumbling to a halt as his knees buckled beneath him.

  In the brief time it had taken him to grab his trunk, the yard had been transformed into a scene of battle. The Hawkguard were trapped within the circular court, screaming and shouting as they defended themselves from aerial attack. Their spears jabbed skywards, swords slashing at the air, as they desperately sought shelter from their enemy. Many lay dead on the ground, and the unmistakable figure of Skeer could be seen with his back to the carriage while the chaos exploded around him, the horses bucking to break loose. He looked up, face stricken by terror.

  A dozen therians rode the wind around the courtyard, great raptor wings keeping them aloft as they rained death down on the soldiers. Some wore breastplates, others were bare-chested; some carried axes and swords, others fired bows or threw javelins. While they favoured different armour and weapons, they were inextricably linked as kinfolk; each was unmistakably a Hawklord, legendary warriors thought to be lost from Lyssia.

  Their wings, with feathers of different shades of brown, red and grey, rose majestically from their backs. Their muscular arms were still human in appearance, while their legs were those of birds of prey, wide splayed feet that ended in deadly talons. Most fearsome of all were their heads, hooked yellow beaks screeching with fury, dealing death in the blinking of a big, black eye. They swooped through the Hawkguard, tearing them to shreds, ripping them apart, tossing their warm corpses into the air.

  Skeer saw Kesslar and made a break towards his old friend. He darted through the screaming guards, deceptively agile, as dismembered bodies fell across the courtyard. The Hawklords were enjoying this moment, meting out long-awaited justice upon those who had pillaged Windfell. Even Kesslar, a man used to violence, blanched at the Werehawks’ grisly work.

  Skeer was close now, leaping up the steps towards the Goatlord. ‘Kesslar!’ he wailed as he neared him, hands reaching out in desperation, a shadow passing overhead.

  With a bone-shattering crunch, an Eaglelord landed on top of Skeer, knuckled yellow feet crushing the baron’s body beneath him. He held a broadsword, but that wasn’t the weapon he’d used on the turncoat Falcon. Dark talons clenched together, the hooked blades digging into the skin of Skeer’s back, catching on his ribs and spine as they ground flesh and bone together on the stone steps. The Falcon cried out in horror, screaming Kesslar’s name from his traitorous lips. The Eagle turned his head to stare at Kesslar, blinking briefly, before tearing Skeer apart with his feet.

  Kesslar raced back inside, dropped the trunk and slammed the doors shut, dropping the locking bars into place with a clang. His heart felt like it might explode, his hands shaking as he caught hold of the trunk handle again, dragging it away from the doors and the battle in the courtyard. He heaved the box over to the windows from where Skeer had, only moments earlier, stared out over the mountains. With few alternatives, Kesslar craned his neck out and looked down the keep’s curved granite wall. There was a twenty-foot drop from the window to rough rock below. Windfell perched upon a sheer cliff-face, protecting it from attack, the bridge road over the falls being the only way to reach it on foot. The cliffs were sharp and jagged, impassable to humankind, and therians for that matter. Most therians.

  He let the beast take over quickly, every moment’s delay making his death more likely as the Hawklords hammered on the double doors. His chest expanded with three great cracks, ribs bursting to take on the Weregoat’s mightier physique. He tore the robes from his back as wiry, grey hair raced over his body. His legs transformed swiftly, huge, muscular thighs supported by powerful black hooves. His eyes shifted further around his skull, long black pupils dissecting globs of molten gold. The horns emerged from his brow, thick as tree trunks, coiling round upon themselves – the devil incarnate.

  Snatching up the trunk in one grotesque hand, the Weregoat clambered out of the window and jumped. Kesslar’s hooves hit the rocks and somehow managed to take hold, his free hand grasping the wall for further support. To anyone other than the Goatlord such a feat would have proved deadly. Unperturbed, Kesslar shuffled and jumped his way around the keep’s base, making his way round, past the outer walls that surrounded the city, towards the road ahead. Above, he heard the cries of Skeer’s soldiers as they were chased through the palace, butchered where they were found.

  Finally he approached the cliff road, a yawning chasm his only obstacle to freedom. The gap was fifteen feet, from a standing jump, but once more, Kesslar’s faith in his therian ability and his own survival instinct provided all the impetus he needed. Shifting the trunk to his other arm, he crouched low and leaped, propelling himself forward as if his legs were spring-loaded. The Goat sailed through the air, landing safely on the road with some feet to spare.

  Kesslar grinned triumphantly, glancing back at Windfell just the once.

  ‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said, before turning and sprinting towards the first bridge on his powerful, therian legs.

  The first bridge was the tallest and longest of all those that spanned the Steppen Falls, the white stone road riding the elegant arches that held it over the mighty torrent of water. Misty clouds from the waterfall shrouded the centre of the bridge from view, the promise of freedom awaiting him beyond the veil. Kesslar kept his pace up, jogging away from the city, black hooves striking the white granite underfoot as he ran into the spray. He was unsure of where he was headed, but an opportunity would arise soon enough. Something would surprise him, sooner or later.

  As it happened, he was surprised far sooner than he could have imagined. His hooves skittered to a halt on the wet road as the beating of wings caused the mists to part. A large shape loomed into view overhead, the spray swirling through the backdraft. With dread, Kesslar saw the Hawklord drop something from above, the dark mass landing on the bridge, barring his path. The figure rose to its full height, stepping forward, slowly materializing through the mist before Kesslar’s bulging eyes.

  ‘It cannot be!’ gasped the Goatlord, staggering backwards in disbelief.

  Drew Ferran growled. The last of the Grey Wolves paced forward, Moonbrand raised and vengeance in his heart.

  ‘Kesslar!’ Drew shouted over the roar of the Steppen Falls. ‘Your past has caught up with you, and you must face our rage!’

  2

  The Steppen Falls

  The Goatlord looked back the way he’d come, the cries of battle echoing from Windfell. He tugged a long, black knife free from his belt, holding it up defensively.

  ‘Stop running, Kesslar,’ growled Drew. ‘Surrender now and I’ll spare your life.’

  ‘You believe my life is yours to spare?’

  ‘Drop the knife,’ said the Werewolf, his teeth bared as he stepped closer to the Ram.

  ‘You think you can intimidate me, child?’ shouted the Goat, but there was a tremble to his voice. ‘Your father was the same! Bullied his way across Lyssia, and what good did it ultimately do him? His own friends turned against him!’

  Kesslar laughed, backing nervously through the mists, losing all sense of direction. Drew kept his eyes locked on the Goat, ready to leap upon him at a moment’s notice.


  ‘They’ll turn on you too, Wolf! All those you hold dear! History repeats itself, boy: you’re your father’s son!’

  ‘Drop the dagger,’ said Drew. ‘You’ve nowhere to run.’

  Kesslar’s hooves backed up to the edge, sending chalky pebbles scuttling off the bridge.

  ‘Your weapon, Kesslar.’

  The noise of the waterfall was all around them, a constant, tumbling cymbal clash. Kesslar looked behind at the deadly drop, and then squinted at the dagger in his hand. The Wolf towered before him.

  ‘I’ve had a good life, haven’t I?’ chuckled Kesslar, his laughter false and grim. ‘Spent so long putting people in cages: maybe it’s time I tried the view from the inside out? Perhaps the change will do me good?’

  ‘The knife.’

  The Goatlord tossed it across the bridge, metal clanging against stone as it skittered to a halt. Kesslar put his long box down in front of him and dropped to one knee, his head sagging forward. Drew, trying to remain calm, felt dizzy with triumph, having forced the Weregoat to surrender without even drawing blood. There’s always another way, he reasoned silently to himself.

  ‘You’ve done the right thing, Kesslar. I’m no monster. I’m taking you back to Windfell, let the Hawklords judge you. See what they –’

  The sentence was cut short as the large wooden trunk was propelled forward by the Goat, shoved along the floor in front of him. Drew had no option but to jump into the air to avoid being hit. By the time he was returning to earth, Kesslar had already leaped, springing forward from his crouched position, his powerful horned head catching the Wolf square in the chest.

  The Werewolf sailed through the mist, landing on his back with a crunch. Stars flashed as the world spun. His vision blurred as he tried to right himself. The hammering of hooves on the road approached rapidly. Drew raised Moonbrand up, his hold on the sword flimsy. A powerful kick from the Goatlord’s hoof almost broke Drew’s arm, the precious sword flying from his grasp.

  With a wheeze he rolled over, the fingers of his hand scrabbling over the white stone as he searched in vain. Another kick to his guts sent him rolling, over and over, before he shuddered to a halt by the bridge’s edge. Grunting, he pulled himself on to all fours, wincing as his bruised ribs grated, nerves firing with pain. He caught the sound of hooves through the mist once more. He raised his left arm up, the stump deflecting the blow at the last second and slamming Kesslar on to the floor.

  Drew dived for the Goatlord, but his movement was clumsy, the youth still stunned from the injuries he’d been dealt. Kesslar snatched at the Wolf’s throat, throttling Drew as the lycanthrope’s jaws snapped towards his face. The Wolf’s claws came up next, his right hand tearing at Kesslar’s chest, arms and wrists, trying to shake the Goat loose. The golden eyes bulged, the Weregoat snorting with exertion as he put all his strength into the chokehold.

  Drew tried to bring his legs round, tried to grapple with the lower half of the Goatlord, but Kesslar’s powerful legs kicked him clear. Drew felt his stamina faltering, his limbs growing weak as the fight began to slip away. He focused his energies into his throat, straining against the Goat’s grip, concentrating solely on not letting the beast snap his neck. A little longer, he prayed. Just a little longer …

  Kesslar rolled him over, first straddling him and then standing. Drew’s hand and stump fell away as the Goatlord choked the life from him.

  ‘This is how you die, Wolf,’ grunted Kesslar. ‘At my hands. Alone.’

  ‘Not …’ spluttered Drew, the Werewolf’s mouth wide now, tongue lolling. The veins and muscles bulged around his shoulders and throat, a last stand against suffocation. Kesslar shook him, coaxing the final words from the dying lycanthrope.

  ‘Speak, Wolf!’

  ‘Not …’ croaked Drew. ‘Alone …’

  He lifted his weak hand, a clawed finger pointing through the mist. Kesslar looked up and saw three figures appear through the mist. Their features were unreadable through the spray, but their outlines were instantly recognizable. The giant figure in the middle carried an enormous mallet in his hand, a hammer that would take the strength of two regular humans to lift it over their heads. The prowling woman, stalking forward, her spear raised, ready for attack. Last of all came the heavy-set warrior carrying the spiked mace, swinging his deadly club menacingly.

  ‘No!’ shouted Kesslar, as the Werewolf threw his arm out.

  The clawed hand tore at Kesslar’s hamstring, the mighty leg buckling instantly, loosening the Goatlord’s grip. Drew collapsed as the Goat staggered back, bringing his hand to his throat as the Wolf vanished, his therian energies exhausted. He lay on the floor as the Goatlord screamed, clutching his bloodied leg. Kesslar tried to back away, but it was no good. His enemies surrounded him in the mist, shadows that would have their revenge.

  With a furious roar the Weretiger dashed forward, lightning fast, her claws tearing across Kesslar’s chest. Then he was flying in the other direction as Taboo caught him with another claw, this time across his throat. Then she was gone, returned to the mists.

  ‘Turn on me, would you?’ choked Kesslar, trying to staunch the wound at his neck. ‘They chanted your name in Scoria, Taboo! I turned you into a goddess! This is how you repay me?’

  The snorting sound from behind was the only warning the Wererhino gave him. Krieg’s huge horn punched into Kesslar’s back, launching him into the air. Drew watched as the battered Weregoat sailed over him. He landed beside the trunk, his clawed hands fumbling over the wood as he struggled to rise, his back broken, leg snapped and throat torn. The Goat still managed to pick up his precious box, holding his treasure close to his chest as the last therian gladiator advanced.

  ‘Whatever he’s paying you,’ spat Kesslar, his mouth frothing with bloody bubbles. ‘I’ll triple it! I have here the treasure of Scoria. I’ll share it with you. What do you say?’

  The Behemoth brought his huge mallet back, his body shifting, doubling in size as his shadow filled the bridge. His broad head, tusks and trunk rose through the air as he put all his weight behind the final blow. Drew looked away at the last, the Weremammoth’s hammer flying, the stone block crashing through Kesslar’s box, shattering the timber as if it wasn’t there. The mallet shattered the Goatlord’s ribcage as Kesslar’s body took flight, disappearing off the bridge into the white spray, leaving a trail of blood, gems and jewels raining through the air in its wake.

  The Behemoth let the mallet fall to his side.

  ‘Take it with you.’

  Krieg was at Drew’s side, the horn slowly receding, the broad neck thinning once more as he cradled the young Wolflord in his arms.

  ‘My throat …’ whispered Drew, his voice hoarse.

  ‘You’ll live, Wolf,’ said the Rhino, as the Behemoth joined him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Drew croaked.

  ‘Thank your Hawklord friends,’ said Krieg as he helped the Wolflord to his feet.

  Taboo slinked towards them, Moonbrand in her hand. For a moment, she examined the blade, checking its balance, giving it a few swipes through the air. Drew was momentarily transported back to Scoria and the wild, arrogant felinthrope he’d first met. That Taboo would have taken the sword for herself. She flipped the blade around, holding the round, white metal handle out towards Drew.

  ‘The king dropped his sword,’ she said, smiling, as the Steppen Falls thundered around them.

  3

  The Ratlord’s Skull

  The torchlight sent shadows racing down the spiral staircase ahead of them, flickering phantoms that danced out of sight. Each curving step down the narrow stairs took them deeper into the belly of the citadel of Vermire, closer to the tomb of the Ratlords. Vanmorten led the way, the Lord Chancellor’s long black robes dragging over the wet stone steps, threatening to trip up the magister following. Hector stayed close behind the Ratlord, grateful for the illumination, fearful he might stumble and fall at any moment.
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  ‘Mind your step, Lord Magister. I wouldn’t want you breaking your neck.’

  We can’t have that happening, dear brother. Not when we’re so near to our prize.

  Hector’s Boarguard, increased in number, had accompanied him on the two-day ride north. There were now eight, Ringlin and Ibal complemented by the six Ugri warriors who had been the bodyguard to Slotha. Hector had been unaware of the Tuskun tradition that dictated that a defeated lord or lady’s vassals would immediately swear allegiance to the victor. As such he now had six of the mightiest warriors from the frozen wastes at his disposal. The thought was comforting to Hector, especially considering their destination.

  Vanmorten and a platoon of the Lionguard had travelled also, escorting the Lord Magister up Grimm’s Lane. Word must have been sent ahead that Hector was on his way, for the Vermirian army awaited them in number at the top of Grimm’s Lane. Armoured pikemen, mounted bowmen, filthy foot-soldiers and black-cowled scouts; the escort grew as they neared the city of the Rat King, all wanting to catch sight of the magister who had once been Vankaskan’s apprentice. Hector kept the Boarguard close at all times. He knew that Vanmorten despised him, the very act of escorting the young Boar to Vermire repulsing the Rat. His business was unfinished with the Lord Chancellor, just as it was with his dead brother.

  Two other members of the Rat King, Vorhaas and Vex, remained upstairs in the Citadel, watching over the Boarguard, while the eldest sibling led Hector into the tomb. War Marshal Vorjavik was away campaigning, leading the Lyssian army through the Dalelands alongside Onyx’s Bastian force. His twin brother, Inquisitor Vorhaas, had remained behind in Vermire, looking after the Rat King’s homeland. He’d shown surprise at the decision to allow the magister into their family crypt, but had held his tongue after a glare from Vanmorten. The youngest brother, Vex, had looked on from a distance, apparently studying the Boarlord’s every move. Hector no longer spooked very easily, but Vex set his nerves on edge.