Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  The Romari was almost at the tent when Trent leapt from the door, charging into him and barging him out of the way. He let out a warning cry, loud enough to alert the whole encampment, but Trent was already running.

  He was in among the horses, finding Storm in an instant. She yanked at the tethering rope, delighted to see him. Unsheathing the Wolfshead blade, he swung it down, severing the rope in a fluid motion before reaching up to the horse’s saddle. The startled whinnies of two neighbouring horses alerted him that someone was fast approaching. He turned to see three Romari closing on him through the other horses.

  Snatching at the reins, he hauled himself on to Storm’s back just as the first man ran up, reaching for him with grasping hands. Trent lashed out with a boot, cracking the Romari across the jaw and sending him back. He kicked Storm’s flanks hard, and the mare reacted instantly, breaking from the crowd of animals at a fast pace.

  More of the Romari were running now, trying to intercept Trent as he tore out of the camp, but there was no stopping the former Lionguard. Bows were drawn and arrows flew, but Storm carried him clear of the Romari missiles. A few souls leapt on to their own horses, giving chase to the outrider, but soon gave up as he disappeared into the distance on one of the fastest horses that had ever ridden the Longridings. Storm’s hooves tore at the ground, kicking up clouds of frosty earth as Trent Ferran headed straight for the Dyrewood.

  4

  Help from the Heavens

  Stormdale’s new-found hope was short-lived. The scenes of celebration following the destruction of the siege tower the previous night had given way to panic along the city’s walls. A dozen different war machines had arrived throughout the following day, and the army of Rats and Crows had wasted no time in placing them across the field. Four more towers had been transported from Riven, in addition to catapults. The towers stood by, as the bolt throwers and shot slingers moved into range. The second wave had arrived. By noon that day the enemy had launched their first onslaught.

  Archers advanced behind mobile walls, launching volleys of arrows at the battlements, many finding their way into the city. For every ten that flew, one was wrapped in burning rags, a fiery projectile that occasionally found thatched rooftops within the crowded, cramped city. Those who hadn’t joined the militia rushed about in teams, attempting to put out the fires before they’d truly begun, but that was only the start.

  Heavy steel bolts fired from the ballista crashed into the walls, sending broken masonry tumbling on to the Greycloaks and the city. Soon the catapults joined the fray, initially launching boulders over the defences to devastating effect. Buildings crumbled as huge rocks smashed into them, destroying centuries-old homes in the blink of an eye. By late afternoon the Ratlord, Vorjavik, had given the signal to release flaming shots of pitch, and fireballs screamed through the darkening sky, adding to the chaos within the city.

  All the while the Greycloaks on the wall rushed valiantly to and fro, desperately seeking targets with their arrows. Their own catapults were put to work, unleashing round after round of rocks back at the enemy, occasionally using parts of the shattered walls as ammunition. Although this tested the resolve of Vorjavik’s army, it didn’t break them; they could see at first hand the effect their attack had on Stormdale and took heart at the Staglords’ misery.

  The five transformed Crowlords who were present took to the skies, carrying out aerial attacks of their own across the rooftops. Led by Lord Scree, they were careful to remain out of bowshot, sweeping over the city and striking swiftly. Their attacks more cruel than anything the force beyond the wall could muster, making the sky rain with steel shot as they launched handfuls of the tiny missiles down on to the defenders. Dropped from such great height, the metal balls acted like crossbow bolts, puncturing the Greycloaks’ exposed skin, tearing holes through flesh and breaking bones. The only defence from such attacks was armour and shields, and too few of the defenders were equipped with them.

  Drew watched from the ramparts, dark clouds masking the moon above, feeling utterly helpless. While he’d been useful the previous night, a one-handed warrior wasn’t much help to anyone in a bow fight. Not for the first time that night, he cursed Red Rufus for deserting them. Their lack of aerial defences had left Stormdale exposed; the Hawklord could have caused some mayhem above the city, launching attacks of his own upon the Werecrows.

  By nightfall the city was in flames, with the siege towers rolling towards the walls. Those too young or infirm to fight had disappeared behind the keep walls, seeking shelter in the castle while the gatehouse remained open should the defenders need to retreat. The Greycloaks and militia were in no hurry, though. They remained along the broken walkways, ready to engage the enemy, while archers led by Lord Reinhardt peppered a team of Riven soldiers who edged ever closer to the gates with a battering ram. So long as the bowmen could keep the ram back, the knights and the Greycloaks felt they could hold the wall. Now was Drew’s time. He looked up at the dark heavens.

  ‘Brenn help us,’ he whispered.

  The first tower juddered to a halt, yards from the wall in front of the Wolflord. Magister Siegfried had made a medium-sized round shield for him, with leather straps that were bound to the stump of his left arm and were supple enough to withstand any transformation. Drew raised it before him, holding Moonbrand aloft as he and the Greycloaks prepared for the attack. Drew was surprised to feel the sword humming in his grasp, the white steel of the enchanted Sturmish blade glowing brighter as the moon threatened to break out of the clouds overhead. It appeared that the sword had powers beyond those he had yet experienced.

  The tower trembled in front of the wall, and the thundering sound of enemy boots rattled through the structure as the enemy raced to its summit. Drew looked at the men around him.

  ‘None get through!’ he shouted, his voice roaring over the noise of the battle.

  The tower wall suddenly swung down on huge hinges, a planked walkway clattering on to the battlements. Men of Riven in their now-familiar leather armour rushed across, swords and spears stabbing and slashing as they charged at the defenders. Drew met them halfway, leaping on to the wooden bridge and immediately sending a handful tumbling from the rickety platform. Swords rained down on his shield as spears lunged in around it, feverishly trying to find their way to the young Wolflord.

  But their weaponry was no match for Drew’s. Moonbrand flew, tearing into limbs and torsos as the attackers poured forth. Those who got past the Werelord were met by the waiting Greycloaks, the defenders empowered to have one so brave – and seemingly fearless – as Drew beside them. Swords and shields clashed as the men of Stormdale held the invaders back, pushing against the tide and standing at Drew’s side.

  Drew could hear a commander in the tower, shouting his men on, urging them up the steps towards the combat. How many do they number? he wondered, stricken by sudden fear. A vicious flurry of blows enabled him to glance over the side of the walkway. A huge group of warriors were gathered below, the men of Riven reinforced by a large contingent of black-cloaked, chain-shirted Vermirian soldiers. The situation was hopeless, but Drew couldn’t let the Greycloaks see how overwhelmed they were. He didn’t want to think about how long it might be before they had to beat a retreat. There were twenty Greycloaks on the sundered wall around him, but there were more than ten times that many enemy soldiers racing up the tower.

  A sword blow glanced off the top of his head, but Drew ducked at just the right moment to avoid being scalped. His head rang as he momentarily lost his balance. He’d held the beast back long enough. The leather-clad fighter who’d struck him launched a kick at Drew’s side, sending him toppling close to the edge of the walkway. More of the Riven soldiers joined him, kicking out and stabbing down, trying to force the Greycloaks’ leader with the shining white sword from the wooden bridge. They weren’t to know he was a therianthrope, but they soon found out.

  For a moment, the invaders must have thought there was a wild dog on the platform with t
hem, snapping at their ankles. When the jaws connected with bones, shattering limbs and severing feet, they realized their problem was far greater. The beast emerged among the mass of screaming soldiers, and even the Greycloaks pulled back as the Werewolf rose with a mighty howl. The moon chose that moment to finally emerge from the cloudy sky, and in an instant white flames raced the entire length of Moonbrand, blinding the frantic attackers. Drew brought the weapon round in a wide arc, the blade severing everything it touched: sword, shield, spear and body.

  Drew roared and jumped forward, bodies crunching beneath his clawed feet as the Werewolf sought fresh foes. He was within the tower top now, surrounded by panicked leather-clad warriors who stabbed vainly at the lycanthrope. The swords found their target, but the men of Riven were ill-equipped, their steel untreated by silver, unlike those of the Vermirian Guard. Moonbrand lit up the structure, making the siege engine’s summit glow like a beacon. Drew forced the men back, and they toppled over one another as they fell down the steps on to their companions’ raised weapons. Finding himself alone on the highest floor of the tower, Drew turned to the walkway and let the blade fly once more, emboldened by its power. Moonbrand cut through the wooden planking, and the platform tumbled away, falling to the ground far below.

  With a graceful bound, Drew leapt the ten feet back across to the battlements, just in time to see a quick-thinking Greycloak launch a flaming cask of oil at the tower. The barrel exploded within, sending flaming oil pouring through the structure, racing over the crowded soldiers who were trapped beneath. The screams of the enemy filled the air as the tower went up in smoke.

  With the point of attack repelled, Drew and the Greycloaks looked along the walls to where they were needed next. Overhead, the clouds found their way back across the moon, the flames snuffed from Moonbrand instantly. As Drew led the men along the parapets in the direction of the gatehouse, he could see that two of the enemy towers had connected with the walls on either side of it. Three Staglords stood toe to toe with the enemy, two repelling the invaders on the one furthest away, Reinhardt holding his own against the one nearest. Though the Stags had transformed, their antlers flashing, the enemy was beginning to learn its lesson.

  A mixture of Vermirian and Riven soldiers poured from the structures, the silver of the better-equipped Rat soldiers adding bite to the assailants’ attack. Drew raced beyond the Greycloaks, rushing to Reinhardt’s side. While the steel and silver sought his flesh, Drew’s survival instinct kicked in. The shield came up, blocking blows, while the white longsword parried every attack. Between each defensive move, he returned to the attack, cutting and biting at the enemy. The Greycloak who had thrown the flaming cask at the first tower called for his men to stand aside, raising another of the small barrels high over his head.

  A Vermirian arrow sailed over Drew’s head, catching the Greycloak clean through the throat, and the barrel spun into the air before crashing back down on to the battlement. Liquid fire erupted among the Greycloaks. Most of them dived clear of the deadly explosion but some were caught in the middle of it. With chaos before and behind him, Drew could feel their grip on the fight slipping. The enemy surged forward, thrilled to see the Greycloaks falling from the walls.

  Below, the gates began to splinter as the battering ram was finally utilized, the bowmen on the walls having been drawn into hand-to-hand combat with the invaders. The enemy army was crowding round the gatehouse now, hundreds deep, intent upon entering the city.

  ‘It’s no good!’ Drew shouted to Reinhardt. ‘The walls are breached. We have to retreat!’

  There was no argument from the battered Staglord, his antlers slick with blood. He raised a horn to his lips as Drew stood in front of him, drawing the enemy attacks. The sound echoed across the city, a solemn signal to all on the walls that they had to beat a path back to the keep.

  Drew stood his ground for a few moments longer than the Stag and the Greycloaks, allowing them time to race through the flames and down to the streets below. Across the other side of the gatehouse he could see that the rest of the defenders had disengaged with the enemy, and the troops from Vermire and Riven were spilling over the ramparts.

  The Werewolf’s yellow eyes returned to the tower where a large, black shape emerged at the top of the steps, pink eyes glowing in the dark. The long, clawed foot of the Wererat Vorjavik, War Marshal of the Lion’s army, emerged on to the walkway. Drew could wait no longer.

  He turned and ran, just as the first Vermirian soldiers swarmed over the walls around him. He leapt into the air, a silver spear catching his hip a glancing blow as he launched himself back into the city. He cleared the street below in an immense bound and landed on the roof of one of the few buildings that wasn’t burning. He bounced off the thatch, rolling and dropping to the cobbles below, but didn’t wait, sprinting away as the gates exploded behind him. He heard Vorjavik’s shout, his cry monstrous and guttural.

  ‘Run, Wolf, run! You’ve nowhere to hide!’

  Drew’s lupine legs propelled him up the steep main avenue, the road obscured by blinding smoke. He ran into stragglers who had fled the outer walls, pushing them on, yelling encouragement as he urged them up to the gates. He remained at the rear, looking back all the while, waiting for the first enemy warriors to emerge from the choking cloud. As the last of the Greycloaks stumbled through the gates, Drew followed them in, the reinforced, steel-bound doors slamming shut behind him. Bars the size of tree trunks slotted into place and a portcullis slid down from the gatehouse, shuddering into the ground with a clang. Mechanisms sprang into life as heavy chains began to rattle, hauling the drawbridge beyond skywards until it was flush with the gates.

  The castle courtyard was crammed with panicked people, shouting and screaming. Drew howled, commanding the attention of everyone in Stormdale.

  ‘Those who can’t fight, get into the keep! See to the wounded! You know what you have to do! The rest: take to the walls!’

  Reinhardt lay on the floor nearby, grimacing as Magister Siegfried crouched over him, tending a savage wound in his guts.

  ‘Silver?’ asked Drew, warily.

  ‘Steel,’ said Reinhardt through bloodied teeth. ‘But it still hurts!’

  Siegfried finished binding the wound, tightening a herb-soaked bandage round the Staglord’s torso. Drew helped Reinhardt to his feet, the black clouds from the burning city billowing over the walls and around them.

  ‘This smoke will be the death of us,’ said Reinhardt. ‘We won’t even see them coming!’

  ‘Brenn be blessed!’ shouted Siegfried suddenly, as raindrops pattered on his face. As the shower became a downpour, he added, ‘The heavens bring us gifts aplenty this evening!’

  ‘Aplenty?’ asked Drew, puzzled by the old healer’s words.

  Siegfried pointed through the crowd to where a group of Greycloaks and the remaining five Staglords had gathered. Something had certainly captured their attention. Drew loped over, letting his body shift at last, gradually returning to its human state with each shortening stride. The Greycloaks stood to one side, letting him through, as the Staglords parted.

  Red Rufus stood before them, the last of his rust-coloured feathers retreating beneath his skin. At his feet crouched a bent and withered old man with his hands tied tightly behind his back, his head bare of hair and mottled with liver spots. He looked up at Drew, the act taking a degree of strength. His face was a mask of hatred, his lips turned down in displeasure.

  ‘Now then, pup,’ said Red Rufus, stepping over to stand by Drew’s side and clapping a hand upon the Wolflord’s shoulder. ‘Let me introduce Croke.’

  ‘Count Croke? The Lord of Riven?’

  Red Rufus smiled. ‘That’s right, lad,’ he said, looking back to the crouching Lord of the Werecrows.

  ‘Meet our bargaining chip.’

  5

  The Unfinished Meal

  Storm trotted gently along the Dymling Road, all too aware of the threats surrounding them. Trent had initially ridden hard upo
n entering the Dyrewood, gradually slowing as the atmosphere of the haunted forest slowly soaked through his bones like creeping death. If the old Baba had set his nerves on edge, they were now stretched to breaking point. Both rider and horse felt it. The ancient forest was thick with the scent of predators – wolves, bears and worse – but something else hung in the air: the sweet smell of decay.

  Not long after departing the Romari encampment, the young outrider had seen the emerald expanse of the Dyrewood, stretching east and west as far as the eye could see. Following the forest edge he’d found the Dymling Road before noon, hitting the gloomy avenue at a fast pace, Storm’s hooves hammering like thunder. The tree branches wove together overhead, giving the old road the appearance of a never-ending tunnel. It hadn’t taken long for the Dyrewood to work its menacing magic, and the travellers’ momentum faltered as the mood and forest darkened.

  Trent had heard tales about the haunted woods throughout his childhood: his mother and father had warned their sons of the dangers within. Then he’d heard the stories about how Drew had survived in the wilderness and found them unbelievable. He was struggling to survive after only one night; what kind of resilience had Drew shown to make the forest his own, his home? How much had his brother changed? Would he even recognize him should they ever meet again?

  That morning he’d heard strange cries. Trent knew these were more than the sounds of wild beasts. These were human: Wyldermen, the feral and fierce roving tribes that made the Dyrewood their home. Late that afternoon he’d caught sight of a pack of wild dogs, stalking him through the undergrowth, racing to get ahead of Storm and cut her off. Trent had spurred her on, outrunning the dogs before they had a chance to launch an attack. When night finally drew in, the promise of sleep seemed little more than a fanciful dream; the Dyrewood wouldn’t let him rest.