‘So when Reinhardt said that we should expect to encounter them, I took him at his word,’ said Drew. ‘The Dyre Road isn’t a safe place for any soul: there are Wyldermen villages throughout the forest, perhaps even larger settlements.’
‘Then it’s our good fortune they’re a primitive bunch, ain’t it?’ said Red Rufus. ‘Leave ’em to war with one another and bicker over their patches. We’ve got enough on our plates worryin’ about them accursed Catlords.’
With their thoughts drifting to their enemy, the two Werelords rode on in broken silence for the remainder of the day. Conversation was sparse, small exchanges of banter that were snuffed out as quickly as they began. They each knew that the greatest battles yet lay ahead of them. Whatever horrors awaited them in Brackenholme, they were a small part of a bigger picture: Prince Lucas and his Catlord brethren held Westland, the Longridings and the Dalelands and, with a force already striking deep into Omir, were no doubt already assaulting Sturmland. Drew hoped that the enemy had stretched itself too thin, fighting on so many different fronts, but hope was a fool’s gambit.
Night drew in early, the cruel chill of winter gripping both therians in their saddles. Drew could no longer feel his fingers, the thick glove that covered his right hand providing little protection from the constant cold. He glanced across at the Hawklord: he’d have smiled at sight of the icicle that had formed on the end of Red Rufus’s nose if it hadn’t hurt so much to smile, his lips chapped and cracked. Reluctant to stop in the afternoon, the two continued on their way until the grey mare and Bravado grew weary. The moon and stars were covered by a great swathe of clouds, plunging the forest into a deeper gloom than before, the occasional owl’s screech or wolf’s howl causing the riders to start. The lupine wail sent shivers racing down Drew’s spine, striking a chord deep within. When Red Rufus’s horse stumbled over an unseen pothole beneath the snow, they knew it was time to rein in.
Wyldermen or not, there was no way the Werelords could go without a fire on such an inhospitable night. While Drew tethered the horses, Red Rufus set off into the forest in search of firewood.
‘Won’t be seeing any wild men tonight, I says,’ he muttered, stumbling into the darkness. ‘Any self-respectin’ Wylderman’ll be tucked up in his straw hut, prayin’ to ’is demons that the cold don’t get ’im. If I come across one I’ll snap ’is worthless bones into pieces and use ’em for kindling …’
Drew threw blankets over the horses, shaking his head at the Hawklord’s perpetually dark sense of humour. The falconthrope’s actions in Stormdale had helped to tip the balance of battle in their favour, as Red Rufus and Magister Siegfried had conspired to ensure that the enemy turned on itself. Drew couldn’t stomach the idea of killing a man in cold blood, but he had to face the facts; the dark deed done when the Hawk sent an arrow into Croke’s black heart had won them that fight. His feelings of triumph after the victory were bittersweet with the knowledge of the Crowlord’s death.
‘Funny,’ he whispered to Bravado as he stroked the charger’s broad white nose. ‘A simple enough word: death. How a perspective can shift: I thought Croke’s demise was murder yesterday, and look at me now! Making excuses for my allies’ actions …’
The cry from Red Rufus made Drew’s legs give way as he fell into a snowbank beside the road. The horses snorted as he struggled to his feet, scrambling through the drift and making for the Hawk’s yell. Moonbrand was out, the glowing blade lighting the way ahead.
‘Red Rufus!’ he shouted, picking out the old falconthrope’s tracks in the snow. Another cry, this one spluttering and high-pitched, signalled how close he was, and Drew sped up as he followed the footprints. The tracks stopped suddenly, and Drew looked up.
Red Rufus was suspended from branches ten feet overhead, a dark green vine noose tight round his neck. Drew recognized it straightaway: wych ivy. The Hawklord clawed at the emerald flesh of the vine, talons tearing from his fingertips and scratching welts into his own throat. His whole body shook and juddered, the animal within desperate to break out, but the man’s mind winning; if he changed now, his whole body would grow – the noose would not. He’d be unconscious before his beak broke free and dead moments later. Another vine swung down, looping round a wrist and yanking it clear. Red Rufus’s eyes bulged as he spied Drew, his face a ghoulish shade of purple as his tongue lolled from his mouth.
Drew welcomed the Wolf in, the beast’s blood hot in his veins, coursing through his legs and arms. He crouched, his whole body creaking and cracking, the bones within elongating, thickening, transforming. His leg muscles ballooned, the thick dark fur of the lycanthrope bristling beneath the taut leather. Holding Moonbrand at his back, he braced the stump of his muscular left arm into the packed ice, another point from which to launch himself from the earth. Arm and legs flexed for a moment before the Werewolf bounded skyward.
His leap was timed to perfection, his ascent slowing at the point where he was eye to bulging eye with Red Rufus. Moonbrand arced through the air, splitting the coils of the wych ivy into hissing, severed serpents above the Hawklord’s head. Instantly Red Rufus was tumbling, his snared arm tearing the vines loose as he tumbled to the ground like a broken marionette.
Drew stood over him, still half-transformed, Moonbrand in hand. The wych ivy recoiled from the glowing white blade, like snakes backing away from a flame, slithering back into the branches high above. Drew’s heartbeat was steady, the youth in total control, the Wolf mastered entirely in that moment. He’d called and the beast had answered. As his muscles relaxed and his human self returned, he looked down at the Hawklord on the frozen forest floor. Red Rufus tore the remnants of the ivy from his throat, poisonous sap drizzling on to the pristine white snow, his frantic eyes fixed on the young lycanthrope. Content that the awful weeds wouldn’t reappear, Drew sheathed his sword and held his hand out.
‘Come on,’ he said, hauling the Hawk to his feet. ‘We need to get a fire started before we freeze. We’ve a busy day ahead tomorrow,’ he said, strolling back towards the Dyre Road.
‘Busy?’ squawked the Hawklord.
Drew called back as the old therian raced after him. ‘We’re doing battle with the bad-tempered bracken before breakfast.’
4
Barbed
The menace that pervaded the Dyrewood during daylight was amplified once the night drew in. Hours after the escape from Brackenholme, the occasional animal sounds that echoed through the forest had faded into the darkness, to be replaced by stranger, more sinister noises; the cries of the red-feathered Wyldermen. Trent was aware of their movements; his childhood growing up on the Cold Coast had left him with a fair knowledge of animal calls, and while the odd screeches and wails might have tricked a town dweller, there was no fooling the farmer’s son. When one of the peculiar cries sounded, and was echoed in another part of the forest, Trent was able to roughly place their point of origin. The Wyldermen had fanned out, coordinating their search to cover as wide an area as possible. But their strategy for communicating allowed the young outrider to stay one step ahead of those who hunted him.
The old Romari, Stirga, was out there somewhere, on his own. Trent prayed to Brenn that he was safe and had given their pursuers the slip: they had been separated when they’d ridden into the woods, immediately after escaping the Dyre Gate. While Trent had led Storm one way, Stirga had headed another, and had been gone from sight in seconds. With a broken sword arm and a pack of Wyldermen at his back, the Romari’s chances of survival were slim at best.
The Werelady, Gretchen, had spent the day slumped in Storm’s saddle, the reins held by Trent as he led his mount on foot beside her. The young outrider had been looking forward to Gretchen awakening from her concussion, which would give him a chance to explain exactly who he was. The blow she’d taken in the Bearlord’s hall had been tremendous. Vala had struck with all her fury and sent the girl hurtling through the window in a shower of glass and broken timber. She’d remained senseless since then, drifting in and out
of consciousness. With the all too brief hours of daylight now stolen away, the Fox of Hedgemoor finally came round, her concussion lifting as she sat up in the saddle.
Trent looked up at her and managed a smile. ‘Do you feel better, my –?’
Trent never completed his sentence. Gretchen’s boot connected with his jaw with an almighty crack, sending his head recoiling as if on a spring. The Werelady kicked the horse’s flanks, and Storm’s sudden gallop whipped the reins free from Trent’s hand. He watched Storm hurdle a fallen tree, Gretchen struggling to steer the mount without the reins, before a low hanging branch caught the girl cleanly across the temple. The branch switched one way and then the other as the rider tumbled from the saddle, spinning in the air before landing on her back with a thump.
As Storm came to a halt nearby, Trent walked slowly after them, stopping when he stood over the fallen noblewoman. She sat stunned, gingerly touching her forehead with trembling fingers, blinking with shock when the tips came away bloodied. The young soldier felt sick enough already as a result of the arrow wound in his shoulder: the kick from the therian lady didn’t help matters. Nursing his jaw with one hand, he held his other out.
‘Shall we try that again?’ he asked, unable to hide his displeasure.
‘I’d sooner take the hand of a Wylderman,’ she spat.
‘That can be arranged,’ replied Trent, walking away to fetch Storm. Taking the reins, he ran his hands through her mane, leaning his forehead against the horse momentarily. The sweats persisted, the cold shivers wracking his body. He looked up as Gretchen rose to her feet, eyeing him warily as she mopped her torn brow with the back of her hand.
‘What are you staring at, Redcloak?’ she snarled.
‘Great collection of bumps and lumps you’re getting on that perfect head, my lady. First your dive through the window in Brackenholme Hall, and then headbutting a tree; you’ll be mistaken for a Staglord before long if you’re not careful.’
Gretchen shook her dress, and clods of mud and mulch spattered the forest floor around her. She held out her hand towards Trent, palm open.
‘It’s a bit late to be taking my hand now, my lady,’ said Trent, managing a grim smile. ‘The offer’s gone.’
‘I don’t want your filthy hand. Your horse; hand me the reins.’
‘No.’
Gretchen walked closer, her lips curling as she bared her teeth at Trent. He caught a flicker of something; a growl, perhaps? He noticed her fingertips, the nails sharper than they were a moment ago; the Fox shows itself?
‘You’re not listening, Redcloak. With respect, I wasn’t asking for the horse. I’m taking it from you, and you can count yourself fortunate that I’m sparing your life.’
Trent winced as he wound the reins around his hand. ‘With rather less respect, my lady, you’ll be doing no such thing. The horse is mine, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll remain in my company.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ she gasped incredulously.
‘No,’ said Trent, growling himself this time, annoyance thick in his voice. ‘I’m trying to protect you. These woods are alive with Wyldermen. They flank us, follow us, pursue us from all sides. As appalling as you must find the notion, you need to stay with me if you want to live. The wild men aren’t discerning – whether human or therian, no doubt we all taste the same when it comes to the crunch.’
Gretchen blanched, looking over her shoulder into the surrounding woodland. ‘And how do you intend to keep me alive? Why should I trust you, Redcloak?’
‘I’m not with the Lion. My loyalty lies with the Wolf.’
‘I only have your word for that,’ she replied dismissively.
‘And my actions,’ added Trent. ‘I worked alongside Stirga, Yuzhnik and Captain Harker, trying to save the people of Brackenholme. I was trying to rescue you and Lady Whitley.’
‘This is a rescue?’
He’d had enough. Trent stepped closer to her, his blue eyes narrowing as he glared at the Lady of Hedgemoor. She refused to back away, but her petulance wilted under his fierce glare.
‘I made a promise that I’d protect you,’ said the outrider, ‘and I intend to honour it, no matter how foolish that vow now appears. If you can look beyond the colour of my cloak for a moment, you’ll see that we’re in this together. The Wyldermen are our enemy; if we’re to survive this predicament, we need to work as one.’
Right on cue, the hollering began once again in the forest. It was distant enough not to put them in immediate danger, but close enough to alarm the pair. Trent stood to one side and gestured to Storm with his free hand. ‘Please, my lady. Get back on the horse.’
As the Werelady clambered back into Storm’s saddle, it occurred to Trent that he’d never encountered a feistier, more headstrong girl in his life. He was having a hard time imagining what it was that had led his brother into friendship with the girl, when everything about her haughty manner left a rotten taste in his mouth.
He smacked his lips as he stumbled on, realizing that the strange, sickly feeling that wracked his body wasn’t entirely down to his altercation with the lady from Hedgemoor. His clothes were soaked with sweat, his body oblivious to the icy chill of night. The pain in his left shoulder was now a dull throb, and the arrow head was still buried beneath the flesh. Any poisons the wild men might have added to the tip were working their dark magic.
He glanced up, catching the girl’s gaze for an instant before she turned away.
‘Don’t worry, m’lady,’ Trent coughed. ‘You won’t catch anything from looking at me. The diseases we peasants carry require closer contact to spread.’
‘You’re already quite close enough,’ she replied, her teeth chattering as she spoke.
‘Therians,’ Trent muttered. His sight blurred as he walked, and tiny lights played across his field of vision like snowflakes hovering in the darkness. ‘You think you’re better than us normal folk, don’t you?’
‘I may have once been guilty of that, but this has nothing to do with social standing. My dislike of you derives entirely from the coloured cloak you wear.’
‘I’ve told you already, I’m loyal to the Wolf.’
‘Loyalty? You wouldn’t know its meaning,’ she said, trembling as the cold gripped her. Trent could see the gooseflesh on her bare arms, as her skin shone pale blue in the faint light. ‘You serve yourself, boy; you’re a turncoat. I’d imagine neither side wants you in their rank.’
Trent grimaced, staggering through the withered bracken. He snatched at the clasp around his throat, tearing the cloak free and throwing it up at the girl. His legs were failing, his clumsy walk now a series of stumbles.
‘Take the wretched cloak. It would suit you well. Perhaps it’ll stop your miserable jaws from rattling and alerting the Wyldermen to our presence.’
Gretchen pulled the cloak from her face as if it were some monstrous cobweb, spluttering as she held it at arm’s length. She looked at it momentarily in disgust, torn between pride and practicality. The winter chill was bitter, and any clothing was better than none. Her eyes alighted on the large bloodstain on the shoulder, and the hole torn through the scarlet fabric. Gretchen was about to remark upon the damaged cloak when the outrider fell, the horse dragging his body through the snow by the reins.
Swinging down from the saddle, Gretchen quickly untangled the Lionguard’s wrist from the reins. She tied Storm to a nearby tree before dropping to the frozen ground beside the youth. She could leave him here, of course. This would be the perfect opportunity: take his horse and filthy cloak and run. If she could pick her way north through the Dyrewood, there was a chance of finding the Dymling Road. Returning the way they’d come was out of the question. The Redcloak was right: the Wyldermen were on their trail, hunting them through the haunted forest. They certainly couldn’t return to Brackenholme. She thought of the horror in the Bearlord’s Hall, where Whitley and her mother faced the Wereserpent alone. She wiped her forearm across her eyes, tears rolling freely down
her cheeks. They were lost: Gretchen had abandoned them.
She looked down at the Redcloak, chewing her lip as she decided what to do. His blond hair clung to his forehead, his blue eyes fluttering as he tried to focus. He was whispering for his mother, the word ‘ma’ wheezing from his cracked lips. He looks half-dead: he’ll only slow me down. She recognized the voice in her head instantly, that of the self-centred princess she’d once been, re-emerging at this perilous time. Self-preservation was a powerful instinct, and her insecurities and fears were magnified tenfold when faced by this dilemma. Can I leave him to die? She rolled him over on his face, the decision made. The old Gretchen was silenced as the Werefox buried her terrors.
A splintered arrow protruded from the Redcloak’s shoulder blade, and was embedded in the leather jerkin. The armour was soaked with dark blood around the entry wound, and fresh rivulets rose and pooled around the shaft when she brushed the broken end with her fingertips. The young man cried out, the pain stirring him from his fevered state.
‘Get it out,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’
Gretchen shook her head, looking at her hands hopelessly.
‘How?’
‘The armour,’ he murmured, vainly struggling with the clasps along his side that secured the breastplate. Gretchen reached down, unfastening them, pulling the buckles apart until the back was loose. She winced as she lifted the armour away from the skin, the leather scraping the shattered shaft and straining against it, twisting the arrowhead in the flesh. The youth bit his forearm, stifling a scream as the armour came away. Placing it gently to one side, Gretchen looked back at the wound.
The shirt on his back was stained with old blood and wet with fresh. She tore the material apart around the arrow, exposing the flesh beneath. The head wasn’t visible; it was buried within the shoulder, with only the thin snapped shaft standing proud.
‘Take it out,’ he sobbed. Gretchen’s hands trembled. The Redcloak’s voice was barely audible, exhaustion taking its toll. The shirt was soaked: how much blood has he lost?
Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 21