Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  All friends together, eh, brother?

  Hector turned away from the scene, trying to ignore the whispers of the Vincent-vile, his dead brother’s phantom that was never silent for long. The dark and bitter spirit was always close by, lurking behind the magister’s shoulder, a constant reminder of the terrible part Hector had played in his brother’s demise. As often happened when the subject of friendship found its way into Hector’s ravaged mind, he thought of Drew.

  The Boarlord had stood shoulder to shoulder with the young Wolflord, the two as close as any brothers could be, and his feelings for Drew were far stronger than any he’d ever had for Vincent. Drew had been the rightful King of Westland, and Hector had been one of the first to swear fealty to his friend. Drew had been supposed to lead the Seven Realms of Lyssia into a bright new future, away from the dark days of King Leopold, the old Lion. Then the magister’s world had slowly begun to fall apart. Through all he’d endured, every trial and heartache he’d faced and overcome, the one thing that had kept Hector grounded had been the knowledge of his friendship with the Wolf, forged in the Dyrewood what felt like aeons ago, though it had actually been less than a year. Unpalatable as the thought was, he occasionally wished Drew were dead, so he would be saved from witnessing the self-serving plotting of the Wolf’s Council since his disappearance several months ago. Though Hector prayed that Drew had been spared this, a tiny piece of his being hoped that he might be reunited with the young Wolflord one day. ‘Where are you now …’ he whispered to himself.

  If Drew still lives, you cannot for a moment think that he would still consider you a friend, brother, hissed the vile. You have chosen your side, Hector. You are aligned with the Lion now. You can have no regrets: you’re an enemy of the Wolf.

  Vincent was correct, of course. No amount of wistful daydreams could ever heal the bad blood between the Wolf’s Council and the Boarlord. Quite simply, Drew had to be dead. The only future that existed for Hector was one where he was loyal to the Lion. He needed the protection of Lucas, had to prove he was no traitor: loyalty led to life. Every other member of the Wolf’s Council had betrayed him – Count Vega, Duke Bergan, Earl Mikkel – only Duke Manfred the Staglord yet lived.

  Not for long, Hector. Not for long.

  Hector smiled bitterly at the memory of Manfred. There would be a reckoning with the old duke. The Lord of Stormdale might think he was safe, hiding in the north, trying to sneak his way into the fortress of Icegarden, but no amount of Sturmish steel was going to keep the magister from having his vengeance. It was unthinkable that Manfred had abandoned him to the Walrus Slotha: and you thought you’d get away with it, Stag? True, he’d once considered the duke a friend, but no more. The Wolf’s Council had become redundant; there was no need for those old fools in the new order. The war was changing the map of Lyssia, and Hector intended to play his part in that. He would be rewarded for his new loyalty to the Lion, Prince Lucas, future king of Westland. He would take whatever he wanted.

  A knock at the door caused Hector to turn.

  ‘Get that.’

  Instantly the Boarguard ceased their merry-making, rising as one and ready for action. The Ugri scout known as the Creep padded over to the door, his free hand close to his weapon belt as he grabbed the handle. They may all have been guests of the Rat King, but none of them trusted their hosts. As the Creep’s fellow warriors fanned out around the room, he opened the door and stood back.

  The hooded, robed figure of Vanmorten stood there, and dark armoured guards were gathered behind the Lord Chancellor.

  ‘You seek Lord Blackhand?’ asked the Creep, his voice rough as broken slate.

  ‘You’re sticking with this ridiculous new moniker then, Lord Magister?’ chuckled Vanmorten.

  Hector shrugged, pacing behind his line of guards.

  ‘It’s not my place to choose what the Ugri call me. I wouldn’t mock them. Their naming rites predate anything your glorious city of Vermire considers a tradition, Lord Chancellor.’

  Although Vanmorten’s face was obscured by the thick cowl he always wore to hide his disfigurement, Hector could sense that the Ratlord was annoyed by the comment. Hector half-heartedly tried to conceal a smile.

  ‘Oh, please come in,’ said Hector. ‘What nonsense. This is your home, after all …’

  Vanmorten stepped into the room, followed swiftly by the Vermirian Guard. Ten palace soldiers entered Hector’s state room, forming their own ring around the Wererat.

  It’s suddenly looking rather crowded in here, brother.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ said Hector.

  ‘We’ve had a Crow arrive.’

  The Boarlord’s mouth went suddenly dry. The reputation of the Crowlords of Riven preceded them; they were cruel and petty avianthropes second only to the Wererats when it came to distrust. Hector’s home realm of the Dalelands lay uncomfortably close to the Crow city of Riven, and he couldn’t recall a time when his people hadn’t feared their neighbours.

  ‘You’re still trusting messenger birds to carry information? There’s a war on, my lord. Not the safest means of sending word from the front line, is it?’

  ‘You misunderstand me, Lord Magister.’

  Vanmorten stood to one side as another man entered the chamber. He was a wiry fellow, only Hector’s height, but he looked battle-hardened. His sharp nose was fixed in a permanent sneer, and his beady black eyes fixed all but Vanmorten with suspicious looks. A shock of black hair erupted from his pockmarked head, the widow’s peak granting him a devilish look. He gave Hector a cursory glare before bobbing his head in a brief bow.

  ‘Lord Flint of Riven,’ said the Crowlord.

  Hector nodded and bowed. He’d heard enough about the Werecrows to know that, along with the Rats, they had been the eyes and ears of Leopold across Lyssia down the years. With the old king gone and a new one waiting to be crowned, the Crows had actively joined forces with the Catlords of Bast as they had come to Prince Lucas’s aid, hoping to crush the Wolf and his allies. No doubt the Crows now served the young Lion just as they had pandered to his father before him. They would never enter a fight unless they stood to gain. For them to enter a fray meant they’d decided who the victor was going to be: the Crows of Riven only backed winners.

  ‘It’s good to have Count Croke firmly on our side,’ said Hector. ‘The neutrality of your people is renowned. Clearly for the Crows to take flight you must have recognized the grave danger Lyssia is in.’

  Flint’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Hector. He turned to Vanmorten.

  ‘If the Boar has something to say, perhaps he’d better come out and say it!’

  The Crow took a step forward, only for Vanmorten to take him by a bony shoulder.

  ‘I’m sure the Baron of Redmire meant no offence, Flint.’

  The avianthrope backed down, shrugging Vanmorten’s disfigured hand free.

  ‘Why the visit, my lord?’ asked Hector, lightening his voice to lift the threatening mood. ‘And what’s so important that your message couldn’t be relayed to the Lord Chancellor alone?’

  You’re a cocky one, brother. Do you fear no one any more?

  It was true. Since Hector had begun communing with the dead, developing his skills of dark magistry, he had turned from a gentle apothecary into one of the most powerful beings in Lyssia. His hunger for power had led him to terrible places, from the sinister White Isle in the Sturmish Sea to the pale skull of Vankaskan in the tomb of the Ratlords. Hector had a confidence about him that he’d never known before. Drew had put him on the path towards self-belief, and he’d become a changed man. He’d proven his power over life and death to Vincent, Vega, Slotha and Lucas; with the dark magistry at his blackened fingertips, there was little in life that scared him now.

  ‘Two pieces of news,’ said the Crowlord, still glaring at Hector. ‘We hear that Moga is in flames.’

  ‘Baron Bosa’s stronghold?’ said Hector, surprise clear in his voice.

  ‘Is there another Mo
ga?’ said Flint sarcastically.

  ‘Who in Lyssia would have attacked the Werewhale’s island?’ Vanmorten asked.

  ‘Too soon to say for sure, but the dozen ships under the Kraken Ghul’s command that controlled the port in Prince Lucas’s name have been scuttled. Bastian frigates, Westlanders loyal to the Lion, privateers from the Cluster Isles; every ship burned, broken and sent to the bottom of the harbour.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ said Hector.

  ‘News travels fast between the Crows,’ replied Flint. ‘The Baron himself is missing, as are many of the pirate vessels that called Moga their home. The city was torched, the garrison sacked and all Ghul’s men butchered. The Kraken’s enraged, understandably, with his northern fleet in pieces. Whoever attacked left nothing to chance.’

  Has the Whale joined the party, brother? What might have prompted him to choose sides?

  ‘Lord Onyx must be fearful for the safety of his armada now such an attack has taken place. Is the Kraken investigating?’

  ‘Indeed, Ghul has been given this task, but Onyx holds little faith in the incompetent Kraken,’ said Flint. ‘The attack on Moga took place during Ghul’s watch – no doubt the Werepanther holds him accountable. The remainder of Onyx’s fleet remains in southern waters, while the Bastian navy helps the army blockade Calico in the Longridings. The city harbours the fugitive Horselords; it’s only a matter of time before its walls crumble.’

  ‘You underestimate the fortitude of the men of Calico,’ said Hector. ‘Duke Brand will not be easily broken.’

  ‘I suspect you underestimate the unwavering focus of the Catlords, Lord Magister,’ sneered Vanmorten. ‘Lord Onyx will not cease his campaign until all opposition is crushed. He had already called for reinforcements from his homelands, Werelords of Bast coming to add might to his cause. Don’t be surprised if Ghul is replaced as Lord of the Pirate Isles by one of Onyx’s own.’

  ‘What other news?’ asked Hector.

  ‘Duke Manfred and Queen Amelie have been sighted in the Sturmish port of Roof. It appears Icegarden may offer them sanctuary: the White Bear has shown his true colours.’

  ‘As was always expected,’ added Vanmorten. ‘Duke Henrik was never going to turn them away. With a bit of luck, the frostbite of a Sturmish winter will be the death of that old Stag Manfred before they even reach Icegarden. What does this mean for Lucas?’

  ‘Lord Onyx leads the Prince’s army towards Sturmland as we speak.’

  Hector cast his mind back to his childhood, when his father had recounted tales of Icegarden’s splendour to the enthralled young Boar. The city was the ancestral home of the White Bears, built into the slopes of the Strakenberg, its mines the stuff of legend. The Daughters of Icegarden channelled the ancient mountain’s magicks, Werebear magisters who worked alongside the mortal Sturmish smiths, enchanting weapons and armour for the greatest warriors of Lyssia. The stories told of a time long ago when the mythical Dragonlords ruled the Whitepeaks, hoarding their treasures deep inside the Strakenberg. Tales of the Wyrmstaff had always captured Hector’s imagination as a child; this powerful artefact had been left behind by the Dragons, and was guarded by Icegarden’s Bearsisters for all eternity. Henrik would die before revealing the mountain’s secrets to his friends, let alone his enemies.

  ‘The White Bear won’t allow Onyx to march into Sturmland unopposed,’ said Hector. ‘He’s no fool.’

  ‘That’s debatable, Lord Magister,’ replied Flint. ‘His actions will prove how great a fool he is. Anyone who takes to the field, willingly meeting the Werepanther in battle … one has to fear for their sanity.’

  Hector’s skin crawled as he imagined what Lord Onyx, the Beast of Bast, might do to Duke Henrik should they clash upon the field. He had met Lady Opal, the Werepanther’s sister, and she had been intimidating enough, counselling Prince Lucas, watching everything, missing nothing. Her brother’s prowess in battle was reputed to be unmatched by any living Werelord. The Panther never carried a weapon into conflict; fully transformed, Onyx was the weapon, his bloody reputation built upon a great pile of slaughtered foes.

  ‘I suspected Henrik’s inactivity reflected a reluctance to pick a side,’ said Vanmorten, lifting a hand into his cowl to scratch at his ruined face. ‘We thought he’d lock himself away in Icegarden, hoping the war would pass by without him wetting his blade. It seems we were quite wrong.’

  ‘Then our hopes of capturing Manfred and rescuing the queen may be greatly reduced,’ said Hector. ‘A shame. I might have been able to reason with the White Bear. He might yet listen to me: he knew my father.’

  ‘Here’s hoping he’s unaware that you murdered Count Vega,’ said Vanmorten with a chuckle.

  Hector’s composure slipped a little as he glowered at the Wererat.

  ‘We do what we must for the greater good, Lord Chancellor.’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded Vanmorten in mock agreement. ‘The greater good.’

  ‘If the Stag hunt is over, does this mean we’re heading back to Highcliff?’ chimed in Ringlin.

  Vanmorten and Flint looked at the rogue in shock. Hector raised a hand to wave away their grievances before they could speak.

  ‘Captain Ringlin may speak freely. He is, after all, the most senior officer of the Boarguard and my military adviser.’

  Vanmorten laughed.

  ‘You make it sound like you have an army, Blackhand! There are eight of them – count them. What walls will you bring down with such a mighty force?’

  Don’t rise to it, brother.

  ‘There are ways and means, Vanmorten,’ said Hector, waggling a black-gloved finger at the Ratlord.

  ‘Well?’ said Ringlin, still awaiting an answer. ‘My lords?’ he quickly added, remembering his place.

  Flint looked from the Boarguard back to Vanmorten.

  ‘My orders from Lord Onyx were to instruct you to return to Highcliff immediately, Lord Chancellor Vanmorten. Let Prince Lucas know of Duke Henrik’s impending treachery, and also the whereabouts of his mother, the queen. Lord Onyx suspects that this will galvanize the prince and encourage him to strike out at the Sturmish with all his might.’

  ‘This conflict shall be resolved before the last snow of winter falls,’ said Hector, clapping his hands together. ‘Mark my words, gentlemen.’

  Hector strode over to the desk in the corner of his state room, where a smart new leather medicine case awaited him. He opened a drawer, fishing out the black candle, weighing it in his gloved palm for a moment before stowing it in the base of the case. He proceeded to remove papers, scrolls and other documents from the desk, purloined from the deceased Vankaskan’s private library and many yet unread. There was a wealth of knowledge in the realm of dark magistry, and Hector had only scraped the surface.

  ‘It will be good to get back to Highcliff,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I have missed Bevan’s Tower in my travels. I can think of no better place to build my new life beside the future king.’

  Flint cackled, the laughter like stones falling into a gutter. Vanmorten joined the Crow, as if suddenly getting the joke.

  ‘What amuses you?’ asked Hector, his smile slipping.

  ‘Lord Chancellor Vanmorten is to visit Prince Lucas. You, however, are not going to Highcliff, my lord,’ said Flint, his voice thick with glee. ‘You’re going to the Badlands. Lord Onyx wants to meet you.’

  7

  The Hanging Tree

  The Romari, the most ancient travellers of the Seven Realms, only gathered in great numbers for one of three events: a marriage that united any of the six old bloodlines; the death of a male Zadka or a female Baba; and, gravest of all, in times of war.

  A thousand of the nomads had made camp in the far north of the Longridings, pitching tents and drawing up their wagons along the edge of the border with the Dyrewood. Rumours persisted that two of the therian ladies who had escaped Cape Gala, Gretchen and Whitley, were in the company of a band of Romari, but this larger gathering had yet to encounter them.
Grouping together in such large numbers afforded them some protection if they were to encounter any of the Lionguard or Bastian warriors in the grasslands; any army would surely think twice before engaging such a force.

  While the Zadkas oversaw the day-to-day running of the camp, marshalling their people and scouting the surrounding hills, it was the Babas who had the final say on all matters, both social and military. Six of the wise women had formed a council at the camp’s heart, gathered around a large fire-pit, each representing different branches of the old bloodlines. Any enemies captured were brought before the Babas to be questioned. If found guilty, the foe was dealt with swiftly, and dragged away to the Hanging Tree.

  One such hapless soul now stood before them, his Redcloak pitted and torn. A guard took hold of the bag that had been secured round the prisoner’s head and yanked it off, leaving the young man blinking at the blinding flames.

  ‘Tell us, what were you were doing alone in the Longridings so far from your Catlord’s battalion?’ said one of the Babas, her back to the fire, body shrouded in shadow.

  ‘I’m a deserter,’ said the soldier. ‘I no longer serve the Catlords.’

  ‘Yet you still wear the Red.’

  ‘And a sergeant’s insignia also!’ said another.

  ‘How long before your comrades arrive in your wake?’

  Trent Ferran rolled his eyes, cursing his ill luck in having run into the Romari. He’d headed north since fleeing the camp of his former leader Lord Frost, putting distance between himself and his ex-comrades. Having slain the albino Catlord with his father’s old Wolfshead blade, Trent expected his fellow Redcloaks to come after him and hunt him down for his betrayal. He’d ridden hard on his trusted horse, Storm, heading straight for the Dyrewood. There were few horses as fast as the outrider’s, and the Redcloaks were too disorganized to give chase. Still, he felt sure he hadn’t seen the last of them. Preoccupied with who might be following him, he’d been distracted from what lay ahead. When the Romari had ambushed him, casting nets and ropes over youth and horse, the two had gone down as if hit by catapults. Bound and hooded, he’d been marched through the grasslands into the heart of the Romari camp and brought before the Council of Babas.