Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  A hundred or so figures scurried up the slopes, close enough for Bergan to see where their loyalties lay. Many were foot soldiers from Muller’s Skirmishers, keen to avenge the deaths of their comrades at the hands of Bergan and his allies. Among their number, he spied the black, scaled armour of the Vermirian Guard, the Rat King’s best soldiers, pressing the Skirmishers on after their quarry. The Rat’s warriors were a far more formidable foe than any of the cut-throats who wielded a club or axe in the name of Muller. These were battle-hardened veterans, no doubt armed with silver. At their back he spied the unmistakable crooked figure of a Crowlord. Which one of Count Croke’s numerous sons this was, Bergan couldn’t tell, but the fact that a Werecrow was present made his heart sink. What mischief was Croke involved in back in the Barebones? He dreaded to imagine.

  Further down the white slopes, the foothills swarmed with the men and tents of the Catlord army, a sea of tiny black figures that bristled and shimmered with shining weapons. Onyx was no fool: his elite Bastian forces were being kept out of combat presently, which is why the men of Lyssia had been sent after the ragtag band of refugees who scrambled through the Whitepeaks. He’d hold back his best until last, and throw the Rats and Crows at the enemy to weaken their defences before letting his mightiest warriors off their leashes.

  ‘The defences!’ shouted Fry, drawing Bergan’s gaze to him. The bowman had reached the top of the rise, revealing the heart of the White Bear’s realm ahead. There they were, jutting out from the mountainside like a row of dark jagged teeth across the valley. Wooden stakes the length of tree trunks jutted out from the tall, packed snowbanks, driven in at angles that made circumnavigating them almost impossible. Enormous ice walls had been carved and crenellated, spears and pikes visible along their length, hinting at the Sturmish numbers beyond. You have been a busy Bear, cousin, thought Bergan, marvelling at the work Duke Henrik had done in the Whitepeaks.

  ‘Hope at last!’ said Bergan, finding strength in his aching legs. ‘On! On!’ The Bearlord began to follow his companions to the incline’s top, his feet plunging through the packed snow. With a crunch, his right foot disappeared through the white powder, and he vanished up to the waist in snow as his whole frame rotated. The bank of ice the group had traversed suddenly sheared free, the Bearlord having broken its fragile grip on the mountainside. Fry threw out a hand, catching Pick before the girl followed Bergan, as the Lord of Brackenholme tumbled backwards down the slope, engulfed in an avalanche of snow.

  Bergan’s world turned upside down, and the old Bear thundered down the slope on a torrent of white death. He could taste the fine, choking powder in his throat, blinding him. Its weight bent his limbs this way and that, threatening to break them at any moment. Gradually the roar of falling ice began to subside, as his momentum slowed and his descent became a slide, the Bearlord coming to a halt far below his companions, half buried, staring up at the cold heavens.

  Fifty feet above he could see the last of the Ugri, Hector’s Boarguard having brought up the rear as they’d tried to evade the enemy. There was Carver and the young magister, the two of them pushing past Hector’s men and barking orders, clearly panicked by the turn of events. The Bearlord craned his head to see how close their pursuers were: the dull thump of an arrow disappearing into the snow nearby told him enough.

  He twisted about, only his head, shoulders and right arm free of the packed snow. To his horror he saw that the Catlords’ soldiers were less than forty feet away and closing. The incline was negligible compared to that above, yet still their progress was slowed, the Skirmishers and Vermirians having to raise their legs high to step through the snow or kick their way through it, keen to reach the Bearlord. They shouted excitedly to one another, weapons ringing as they were drawn, sounding a grisly chorus across the white meadow.

  Bergan roared with fury, calling upon the Bear, willing the beast into his fragile frame. The change was swift and painful, the therianthrope’s body transforming beneath the snow. Those nearest the fallen Werelord might have caught sight of his flailing arm growing, the shaggy pelt of ruddy brown fur spreading across it, his hand widening into an enormous, black-clawed paw. Bergan snarled, his heart beating within his expanding chest as he neared freedom. He tried to drag himself from his white tomb: only to discover with dismay that he was still trapped, his greater mass having wedged him even tighter beneath the snow. The first of the Skirmishers was less than twenty feet away, closing fast. Bergan’s roar wasn’t the ferocious challenge of the Werebear: instead the scream was that of a snared beast.

  The attacker was eight feet away, his spiked club raised high, ready to bury it in the Werebear’s broad skull. Bergan raised his paw in a hopeless attempt at defence. The next moment the fighter’s feet flew upwards, his progress violently halted by a throwing knife in the chest. The snow crunched around the Bearlord as figures ran past him. Carver was at the front, his face and body covered in snow from his slide down the slope. Two of Hector’s Boarguard were with him, shaking white powder from their shoulders, and the Ugri held their axes aloft as they rushed to meet the first Skirmishers.

  Hector slid to the floor beside Bergan, and the Werebear instinctively growled as the youth came too close. The magister held his gloved hands up, pleading for restraint. His eyes constantly darted to the growing battle Carver and the Ugri had fallen into. The remainder of his Boarguard rushed past, including Ringlin and Ibal, preventing the enemy from reaching the Bearlord.

  ‘Your Grace,’ said Hector, ‘you must relax! Send the beast away: push it back, deep inside!’

  ‘Never!’ rumbled Bergan, snapping his huge jaws. ‘To return to mortal state in battle? Without drawing the enemy’s blood by tooth and claw?’

  ‘What battle is it you’re engaged in? You’re buried, my lord! If you don’t revert you’ll be trapped here,’ said Hector, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Shift back to human state and you’ll loosen the packed ice: only then can we extricate you from your predicament!’

  Humiliating as the idea was, Hector’s plan made sense. Smart lad. Bergan tried to focus, the tempting sound of battle around him – axe against sword, spear against shield – making the change even more challenging. Gradually, he began to shift.

  Hector ran on from where he’d left the duke in his icy trap. He had to act swiftly: more Skirmishers and the Vermirian Guard were joining the melee, and his Ugri warriors were wading in with Carver among them.

  These men are supposed to be your allies, brother, yet you set your Boarguard upon them!

  The Vincent-vile was correct: Hector had sworn an oath to Onyx and Lucas, siding with them, turning against those he’d once considered friends. But it was too soon to reveal his hand, too early to strike a blow against the Wolf’s Council. He needed to get into Icegarden, high up in the mountains, beyond the barricades, and this over-zealous Crowlord’s attack was in danger of scuppering his plans before they’d truly begun. Hector was resigned to the fact that blood would be spilled: he was only grateful that these were Muller’s undisciplined rabble, plus a handful of Vermirians.

  Carver held a knife in each hand, stolen from the corpses of Captain Stephan’s men back in the gulch. The Lord of Thieves had his suspicions about Hector, the magister was in no doubt. In their more private moments his right-hand man, Ringlin, had said that the two had known each other back in Highcliff. We had dealings, was how his man had put it, which no doubt meant that Carver knew what Ringlin was capable of. That the Boarlord had taken men like this into his service wouldn’t have been lost on the Thief-Lord.

  They could kill Carver now, Hector. A quick slip of the long knife or Ibal’s sickle: who’d notice in the heat of battle?

  Hector ignored the vile: he had more pressing need of his two oldest retainers.

  ‘Ringlin! Ibal! With me!’ called Hector as he withdrew his jewelled dagger. The two Boarguards ran to him, falling in behind him as he ran a short distance away from the melee.

  ‘Where are you going, my lor
d?’ said Ringlin, looking back to where the Ugri were engaged with their foes. ‘The fighting’s that way!’

  ‘Don’t question me,’ said Hector, catching sight of Bergan, now in human form again, pulling himself from the snow. Half a dozen Skirmishers pulled away from the fight, following the magister, oblivious to the fact that their quarry was actually their ally.

  ‘Come on,’ hissed Hector, looking through the massing crowd of the enemy, searching for sight of his target. ‘Show yourself …’

  As if in answer, a dark shape took flight from the rear of the small army, black wings fanning out and lifting it skywards in steady, powerful beats.

  ‘Good,’ said Hector, ceasing running. ‘Here he comes.’

  Two of the Skirmishers carried crossbows, dropping to their knees to load and aim as their companions ran on. Hector didn’t have to think twice.

  Hector flung his left arm out, palm open, fingers twitching as the vile sped across the snow. The first man dropped his weapon as he felt the invisible noose round his throat. Hector yanked his arm back sharply: even from this distance, amid the sounds of battle, he heard the crack of the man’s neck breaking. He drew his hand to the right, the vile moving on, at the limits of his control. Shorter distances gave him absolute mastery over the phantom: the greater the distance, the more difficult it was to direct Vincent’s movements. Yet the command got through. The second man unleashed one shot, the bolt whistling towards the magister and his men before he went down in the snow, clawing at his neck, kicking wildly as he tried to breathe.

  Hector glanced at Ringlin to his right, and saw that the rogue looked astonished. To his left, Ibal shared an equally disbelieving expression. They’ve seen me do that before: why the wonderment? Hector never got the chance to question his men: the four remaining Skirmishers ran at them, axes, clubs and shortswords up and ready.

  The Boarlord stepped back, leaving his men to contend with the four bandits, putting a little distance between them as the Werecrow circled overhead, swooping down. Hector ran further away, seeking cover behind a tumbledown rock formation; away from prying eyes.

  Lord Flint landed beside him, the earth exploding in a shower of white powder, his taloned feet splayed across the snow. The Werecrow couldn’t resist a guttural kaw as he stepped forward on his monstrous legs, oily black wings arching, ruffling and rattling like a serpent’s tail. Flint carried a scimitar in each hand, twirling them menacingly as Hector backed against the rocks.

  ‘What in Brenn’s name are you doing?’ said Hector, as the Vincent-vile suddenly rejoined him. The phantom was invisible to all but the magister, and it thrilled him to know it was there, ready to be unleashed should the Boarlord desire it.

  ‘You said you wanted an attack launched on your friends. This is that attack,’ said Flint, black beak snapping as his harsh voice hacked out the words.

  ‘You already did that, back in the gulch! You could have left us to continue on to Icegarden with the duke’s party. This attack is too much: my Ugri have put themselves in harm’s way for this charade.’

  ‘What’s a little blood between friends?’ laughed the Crow, briefly glancing over his feathered shoulder to see if their rendezvous had been noticed.

  Hector shuddered: these weren’t his friends. None of them were. His recent audience with Lord Onyx had confirmed what he already knew; the Beast of Bast was aptly named, as terrifying as any creature he’d ever encountered. The Werepanther was to be feared. Hector was done with friends. He only had enemies now, to varying degrees, some hated more than others. Flint was quickly propelling himself to the top of that list.

  ‘If any of my men die –’

  ‘Quit worrying, Blackhand: this is war,’ he squawked, whipping a scimitar up to Hector’s throat.

  Release me, brother, said the vile. Yet Hector delayed, his eyes narrowing as the Werecrow continued.

  ‘Men die all the while. That fool Onyx has my brothers fighting for War Marshal Vorjavik in the Barebones. Can you imagine that? The Crows having to serve a Rat? You think I care if any of those Vermirian scum should fall? They can all die as far as I care, so long as my people take Stormdale!’

  Interesting, thought Hector, gently pushing the scimitar away with his dagger. Still the Vincent-vile waited to strike, anxious as a terrier on a short leash, gnashing its spectral teeth in the direction of the Crowlord.

  ‘You’d betray your allies?’ said Hector. ‘And you speak ill of the Beast of Bast? You’re braver than I thought, Flint. I’m on a mission for Lord Onyx, if you recall.’

  ‘I know what you’re capable of, Blackhand,’ said the Werecrow, leaning in close until his slate beak scratched Hector’s chin. The black tongue flickered within like a dark flame, the large, avian eyes blinking.

  ‘What of it?’ said Hector, sneering at the Crow. ‘You’d risk ruining my plan, all because of a falling out with the Rat King? Suck up your differences, Flint: work with Vorjavik. We all have our trials. I could win this war if I get into Icegarden. I can destroy the Wolf’s Council in one fell swoop.’

  ‘I know what you’re capable of,’ the Werecrow repeated. ‘And I want a part of it.’

  Hector was genuinely surprised.

  ‘A part of it? The ancient art of magistry? I’ve studied my entire life to master these magicks and you expect me to teach you tricks?’

  ‘You misunderstand me, Blackhand. You and I can work together. There are more twists and turns for all sides to endure before this war concludes. Take what you want from the Seven Realms: give my people the Barebones and the lands around it! The Boars and the Crows aren’t so different – we’ve both lived too long in the shadow of Wolves and Lions. I can help you, Hector. Together, we may both triumph.’

  He bargains with you, brother. Might he be of use to us?

  ‘The Whitepeaks,’ said Hector, looking anxiously at the mountains, the screams of battle still echoing around the valley. ‘Have you any news?’

  ‘I’ve flown north of Icegarden, yes. All that you promised is coming to pass. They come.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Hector, a note of nervous tension in his reply.

  Lord Flint took a step back, glancing round the rocks.

  ‘It appears your cavalry’s arrived,’ he said, his beak clacking, eyes widening with surprise. Hector stepped forward to look.

  A swirling white cloud rolled like a wave down the mountainside. More than fifty soldiers on horseback raced down the slope, snow cascading around them. Their steeds were heavyset horses, the kind Hector had once seen in the Barebones as a boy, favoured by mountain men. The warriors’ longswords were raised high as their crisp white cloaks billowed. Hector caught sight of an enormous white bear racing in the heart of the Sturmish knights, the ice splintering beneath each thundering footstep as it crashed into the battle, leading the charge: Duke Henrik, the Lord of Icegarden. The Vermirians and Skirmishers broke beneath the attack, either crumpled underfoot or fleeing down the slopes, away from the Sturmish horsemen and the ferocious Werebear. The knights gave chase, cutting down each one, showing no mercy.

  ‘I’d best be going,’ sighed Flint, turning back to Hector. ‘I’d do something about your accursed limb before rejoining the Bearlords, if I were you, Blackhand.’

  With that, Flint took off once more, limping through the sky back towards Onyx’s camp, feigning injury with each weary wingbeat.

  ‘My accursed limb?’ said Hector to himself, just as Ringlin and Ibal arrived round the wall of rocks, searching for their liege. The two bloodied men looked relieved to see their master alive, but their concerned looks didn’t go away; the two stared at Hector’s left hand. His eyes followed theirs.

  The second Skirmisher crossbowman had unleashed a shot just before Vincent had taken him down. Hector hadn’t wondered where the loosed bolt had ended up. Now he saw it, a six-inch bolt sticking clean through the palm of his gloved hand. He cocked his head as he examined it, lifting it, turning the hand one way and then the next as he inspected the w
ound. He felt no pain, no discomfort. The hand was cold, numb. He gripped the bolt’s head and pulled, drawing it out. Ringlin blanched. It came away with a sucking pop, and Hector tossed it into the snow. Again, he examined the hand, which had a perfectly neat hole punched clean through it. There was no blood, and he felt no distress. He felt nothing.

  ‘You need a new pair of gloves, my lord,’ said Ringlin.

  ‘I need to get into Icegarden,’ corrected Hector, moving the leather glove enough to hide the hole in his withered hand, his head full of questions. So odd that Lord Flint should make such an offer: did the Crow truly believe Hector was that powerful, that he was so great an ally? Flint had watched him commune with the slain scout in Onyx’s camp, but he was yet to witness the vile at work. Something had certainly shifted in their relationship, and the balance of power had tipped. Was Hector’s command over the dead enough to change the Crow’s disdain to grudging – or possibly fearful – respect? Or was this just another Werelord trying to feather his own nest, to ensure that whatever happened during the war he’d come out on the winning side? If Onyx’s armies were turning on one another, what had driven them to such an act on the eve of their greatest victory, when they were so close to defeating the Wolf’s Council? What other forces were at work?

  You’ll get your answers, brother, all in good time, whispered the vile. Good things come to those who wait.

  ‘Come, gentlemen,’ the magister said, extending a hand before him. ‘We’ve the Lord of Sturmland to meet. Duke Henrik will want to shake hands with the heroes who saved the Bear of Brackenholme from an early grave.’

  7

  Evening the Odds