Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘It is you and your people who are the monsters!’ snapped Whitley. ‘Burning farmsteads, slaughtering families, butchering merchants on the Dyre Road; the Wyldermen are cannibals – they don’t belong anywhere near civilized society!’

  ‘They have lived in the forests as long as any human has walked this earth,’ hissed Vala, lurching forward over the fire-pit, her gnarled hands holding her upright as the glowing coals lit her scarred face from below. Her right eye had been replaced by a puckered black socket, Gretchen having left an indelible, savage mark on the Wereserpent. ‘The Dyrewood was their realm once, and it shall be theirs again henceforth. The time of the Bearlords is over.’

  Whitley could see what was so unusual about the woman now. Vala was misshapen and malformed, her body rippling as she moved, her belly distended. It was as if her transformation had been unsuccessful, that elements of the snake remained fused to her human form. Whitley recoiled at the sight, and Vala noticed her reaction.

  ‘My stomach?’ laughed the old woman, yanking the shawl to one side so the girl could better see it. The bile rose in Whitley’s throat as she saw hard, irregular shapes jutting out of Vala’s torso, like broken bones threatening to burst out of a bag of flesh. As the faux-Baba moved, so the lumps and disfigurements shifted, grating against one another.

  Vala continued. ‘It takes me a while to digest a meal … certainly a big one like that boy. This human form isn’t ideal for my metabolism, which has made dining terribly awkward for the last few months. I had to regurgitate one of the wretches one night when we rode through the Dyrewood. Thankfully my dear Darkheart was there to dispose of the child’s body.’

  Whitley heaved now, her own stomach knotting as she realized the reason for Vala’s bizarre shape. Her mind raced back to their journey towards Brackenholme, through the Longridings, as they made their way up the Dyre Road towards her home. Vala had spent the entire journey hiding in the back of her caravan, beneath a pile of blankets, her body out of sight. There had been so many abductions while the old Baba had been in their company, so many unexplained disappearances.

  ‘The children –’ began Whitley, but Vala was ahead of her already.

  ‘Even masquerading as a Romari witch, I had to eat. I can pick at a bowl of soup or stew like the rest of you, but it provides no sustenance. At the end of the day, it’s live food a Serpent desires.’

  ‘You murderous monster,’ snarled Whitley, wiping tears from her eyes.

  ‘This is not murder,’ corrected Vala, smoothing a hand over her deformed body. ‘I kill to eat, I eat to live; that is the nature of things, the hunter and her prey. I obey my instincts, and my instincts rightly tell me that humans are food.’

  ‘Is there even a shred of humanity inside you?’ said Whitley, shaking her head sorrowfully.

  ‘Beyond the boy in my belly?’ the Wereserpent laughed. ‘None at all, and why should there be? I am pure therianthrope, Bearchild. To wish for human traits would be to pine for weakness. Perhaps that is where you Children of Brenn differ from my kind.’

  ‘Your kind?’ asked Whitley wearily.

  ‘The Old Therians, from a time before your Brenn and his Great Feasts. You and your Werelords would tremble before my kind. The Bears, the Wolves, the Lions, the Hawks; you think you own the earth, starting wars, making laws, believing that yours is the only kind of civilization the world has ever known. There was a time when your kind were ours to command, no better than humans in our eyes. In the Age of Dragonlords, it was we who ruled. And we may yet rule again. You bleat about humanity as if it’s a gift,’ she scoffed. ‘It is as good as a curse. You are all weak in the eyes of an Old Therian such as I.’

  Whitley sat down finally, grief overwhelming her tired body. She dropped her head, trying to stifle her emotions.

  ‘That’s right, girl,’ said Vala, her voice quiet but animated. ‘Let it all out. Don’t bottle it up any longer. Sob for your sorry situation. Your cause is lost. Hope? You have none.’

  Vala’s poisonous words whispered across the fire-pit, each one cutting into Whitley’s soul, choking the life out of her resolve. She had endured so much while trying to get back home after losing her father and brother. And all for naught: she had brought a killer into her mother’s welcoming arms.

  ‘Know this, little ursanthrope; I shall make the end swift for you when it comes. Perhaps there is a semblance of humanity in me after all. I found you strangely enjoyable company while we travelled together, Bearchild; your wide-eyed childish innocence was quite entertaining. I might actually be sorry to see you dead when the time comes – it’s too soon to tell for sure – but die you must as a friend to the Wolf.’

  ‘You wait for him to come, yet he could be dead!’ sniffed Whitley, her head still in her hands. ‘He may never come, and then what? All this shall have been for nothing!’

  ‘All for nothing? I have Brackenholme!’ said the Wyrm. ‘No, he shall come. And once he arrives here, I promise I shall make it quick. No, I shall not make you suffer. Nor your mother.’

  Whitley was up and on her feet in a split second, her toes kicking the hot coals up from the fire so they showered the old woman. Vala struggled away from the pit’s edge, brushing the embers from her shawl and flesh, hissing all the while, but the Bearlady of Brackenholme was still moving. Her hand closed around Vala’s throat, and her fingertips had transformed into curving black blades.

  ‘You will not touch my mother,’ Whitley growled, the words coming out low and bestial.

  Vala looked up and grinned as Darkheart appeared at her side, knives in each hand, eyes fixed upon Whitley. ‘You think you can threaten me, Lady Whitley?’

  Other Wyldermen began to appear, following their chieftain out of the shadows from around the Wereserpent’s nest.

  ‘You spare my mother’s life, Vala,’ Whitley snarled, shaking the old snake by the throat. ‘Swear it!’ she shouted.

  Instantly the other captives on the dais awoke, rising around Duke Bergan’s throne, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the horror in the darkness. Vala chuckled, a low throaty rattle, as the wild men fanned out, stalking past Whitley and closer towards her fellow prisoners.

  ‘Release me, Bearchild,’ hissed Vala, the menace and threat all too evident. Her one good eye stared past the young lady, following the movements of her men through the chamber.

  Whitley glanced back, catching sight of her mother, Duchess Rainier, standing defensively in front of her courtiers as the Wyldermen circled them, weapons raised. Whitley released her grip on the old crone’s throat, dashing back towards her companions and into her mother’s arms. She glared at Vala as the old woman massaged her neck with a bony hand.

  ‘So, little Bear,’ she chuckled. ‘You do have claws after all.’

  10

  Common Ground

  Birdsong drifted through the swaying branches that encircled the glade, sunlight fluttering through the canopy and sending dappled drops of gold dancing across the grass. Gretchen lay on her back, staring skywards, her face fixed in a perpetual grin. This was her glade, her secret refuge from court life in Hedgemoor. Many of her earliest memories revolved around the clearing; her mother had brought her when she was little more than a babe-in-arms. She had missed the place, been away from home for far too long. She let the sun’s warmth wash over her, creeping through every fibre of her being. A shape passed before it, casting her into shadow. Her disappointment instantly shifted to a feeling of joy, when she recognized the face above as Drew’s. Her Drew. How had he found her? She couldn’t remember having brought him to Hedgemoor before. He stared down at her, the heat from the sun fading fast around them, his shadow growing, as darkness spread across the clearing. With the shadow came the cold, bitter and biting. He wasn’t smiling. This wasn’t her Drew. She’d never taken him to Hedgemoor. His mouth opened slowly, revealing a row of jagged, serrated teeth, as he moved to kiss her …

  Gretchen woke with a scream, a hand clamping over her mouth to cut it short. For the brief
est moment she felt relief that it had only been a nightmare, until she realized she’d woken to one. The world was still grim, and their prospects bleak. The hand over her mouth was that of ‘Redcloak’, as she’d come to call him; she knew his true name now well enough, but he’d responded to the other, so the nickname had stuck. Trent Ferran; human brother to Drew, the Wolflord who had stolen her heart.

  The two of them lay among the bare roots of a fallen sycamore, their only shelter against the wind and snow. The tree had fallen into a shallow pit in the earth, which was the closest they’d come to a forest clearing for days. The only warmth was that of Redcloak’s body up against her back, an arm round her waist holding her close. His scarlet cloak was draped over them, providing meagre protection against the elements, but something nonetheless. Her breath steamed between his filthy fingers, drifting into the frosty air as his lips brushed her ear.

  ‘Hush,’ whispered Redcloak, removing his hand from her mouth. ‘You were dreaming.’

  She felt her heart speeding, beating out of control. She had lost track of the days, the oppressive gloom of the Dyrewood was never-ending, sapping their spirits. Constantly on the run from the Wyldermen, they only rested when exhausted, hoping that they had put enough distance between themselves and their hunters. It was difficult to tell where the terrors of the waking world ended and the nightmares began; her mind and spirit were under constant duress. Despite the continuing horror, she was thankful for one thing: Redcloak.

  ‘Easy now, m’lady,’ he said, shifting where he lay to allow her to roll back into the spot he’d vacated. It wasn’t much, but there was a degree of warmth there, waiting for her, and she allowed him to put his arm back across her, straightening the pitted red cloak. ‘Another nightmare?’

  Gretchen didn’t answer, instead staring up at the cloudless sky, her breath steaming, lit by the stars.

  ‘I’m sorry, m’lady,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘The hand … your mouth. It’s just … your voice was rising. I was afraid if you screamed you might alert them.’

  Them: the Wyldermen. Their hopes of outrunning the chasing pack of wild men had come to nothing. On each occasion that the two had allowed themselves to relax, daring to believe they’d evaded the tribe of killers, their haunting calls would echo through the Dyrewood.

  ‘No matter, Redcloak,’ she said, managing to smile. ‘I’d much prefer your filthy fingers across my face to a Wylderman’s hands about my throat. Thank you.’

  He settled down once again beside her, tentatively moving closer to her, expelling the cold air that was gathering between their bodies. She felt his rough chin settle against the small of her neck, his hot breath behind her ear. At any other time, in any other place, she might have giggled or cringed at such a sensation, would have found his proximity intrusive. In some societies a commoner would be flogged or worse for behaving in this way with his betters. But this wasn’t the place or time, and Redcloak was anything but common.

  The initial frostiness between the two of them had thawed, although, as Brenn was her witness, Redcloak still had the ability to irritate Gretchen. Slowly, the two had lowered their guard in each other’s company, the bickering growing less with the passing days. They found common ground to talk about: their childhoods – Gretchen’s in Hedgemoor and Trent’s on the Cold Coast, growing up on the farm with Drew. They could talk about their present situation, what their next step should be, what they might eat.

  The one subject they avoided was the fate of Drew. Each feared the worst, rumours having reached them on their travels. Gretchen found herself guarded whenever Redcloak asked about Drew. She couldn’t be sure why; she trusted him now, for sure. What was she afraid of? Did she fear she would jinx the small hope she had that Drew yet lived? Perhaps that’s why she continued calling Trent ‘Redcloak’. He was still a soldier, a virtual stranger. That name allowed her to keep a distance. To call him Trent would be an invitation for him to grow closer, and there was only room for one Ferran in her heart.

  ‘It’ll be dawn soon,’ he said. ‘I should probably get moving, check the traps and snares.’

  Redcloak was an ingenious youth, clearly with the same sharp mind as Drew. He’d fashioned snares from strips of saddle leather, which brought him mixed success in capturing small game: rabbits, rats, whatever the Dyrewood had to offer, which wasn’t much. Thus far the sum total of their captured animals had consisted of two squirrels and a very large toad. There were other hunters snatching the lion’s share of pickings: birds of prey, wolves, even the fabled Dyrecat, the forest’s alpha predator. Redcloak and Gretchen had to make do with the leftovers, and even then only those inedible or foolish enough to have wandered into his crude traps.

  ‘Can we not rest a little longer?’ sighed Gretchen.

  ‘Three things on that front, m’lady,’ said Redcloak. ‘Firstly, there’s the small matter of the wild men. They’ll be up and moving now, I guarantee it. Secondly, if I don’t go and check my snares now, you can be sure they’ll be picked clean if we leave them any longer. And lastly, and most importantly, you’re a Werefox. How about helping by changing into a fox so you can catch us some breakfast?’

  Gretchen laughed at this. She’d already explained that her control over her therian side was limited, usually coming to the fore at times of heightened emotional tension, when she was fearful or in danger.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ she scoffed. ‘The Fox comes out when my safety depends upon it. Catching squirrels is hardly life and death!’

  ‘You laugh, but a tasty squirrel could be that very thing. We may starve to death before the Wyldermen get their claws into us.’

  ‘How’s your shoulder, Redcloak?’

  ‘Hurts like sin. It throbs. It aches. The itch is incessant. I want to scratch it, tear the cursed scab from my shoulder. I can’t sleep on it without feeling as if there’s a knife twisting in my back. Every time I exert myself I fear the wound will tear open anew. But I’ll live. Tell me if I start moaning, won’t you?’

  She sensed he was grinning.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Redcloak.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For seeing to the wound. I’ve heard mention of Wyldermen lacing their weapons with poison: looks like I was fortunate enough to be shot by a regular barbed arrow. Small mercies, eh?’

  He sat upright, letting the crimson cloak fall away. Gretchen snatched at it, pulling it over herself as the cold leached into her skin.

  ‘Come on, m’lady,’ he said, hauling himself stiffly to his feet. ‘We need to think about making tracks.’

  ‘Making tracks? That’s the last thing we need to do, surely, with Wyldermen following us?’

  ‘A turn of phrase; blame my father.’

  Gretchen followed Redcloak’s lead and sat upright as he stood over her, trying to stamp life into his frozen feet. He rubbed his hands together clumsily, willing the warmth into his palms without success. His teeth chattered, and the young soldier grimaced as he tried to lock his jaws and prevent their traitorous rattling. The cold was bitter, and his extremities were suffering in these conditions. Gretchen’s therian constitution stood her in good stead; her hardy animal side helping her to withstand extraordinary weather conditions, but Redcloak had no such luxury. Human blood coursed through his body, and with it human frailty. She watched him as he persevered, wincing with discomfort as he tried to flex his frigid fingers. For all the pain he was in, he wouldn’t admit it to her.

  ‘I suppose the winter is something else that reminds you of the Cold Coast, then?’

  ‘This?’ said Redcloak, sniffing, stepping over to where they’d secured Storm to a nearby tree. ‘This is nothing. Bit of a chill is all. We’ll be all right once the sun comes up.’

  She knew his words were bravado. The sun was a long way from showing its face, and they’d be lucky if any rays found their way through the tangle of trees to the forest floor. She allowed herself a moment to look at him as he brushed his horse’s coat, his hands trembling. His fingers looked
blue and bruised, surely not a good sign. Had he even been under that cloak in the night? His chivalry knew no bounds, and Gretchen couldn’t help but feel ashamed.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing him the cloak. ‘Take a moment to get warm. I’ll find the traps, and check if Brenn has blessed us while we slept.’

  Redcloak grimaced, speaking through clenched teeth, struggling to stop their chatter. ‘Let me check the snares; I know where I left them, m’lady.’

  ‘I might not be able to hunt like a Fox, but I do still have a keen sense of smell,’ she said, twitching her nose for him to see.

  A distant cry stopped their banter instantly. It sounded like a capercaille to Gretchen, a bird familiar from her childhood that could be found on the moors in the Dalelands. She glanced at Redcloak, looking hopefully to him for a comforting nod, a wink to confirm her hopes that it was just a bird’s cry. He stared back grimly, his jaw still set, but his blue eyes without humour.

  ‘Take the cloak, m’lady,’ he said, offering it back to her as she set off into the woods to check the traps.

  ‘No,’ she called back as she hurried on her way, desperate that they should get moving once again, aware that every moment they delayed increased the chances that the outrider might freeze to death. ‘It’s your cloak, Trent. Please wear it. For me.’

  1

  The Wolf in Wylderman’s Clothing

  At first glance the mist looked like any other, hanging over Brackenholme like a deathly grey shroud. The Great Trees, once visible to anyone approaching the city, were obscured by the impenetrable fog. The glow of occasional campfires caught the three travellers’ attention out among the burnt meadows that had once flourished beyond the palisade walls. The shouts and laughter of Wyldermen echoed all around, permeating the mist, adding to the sense of dread that followed their every step. It was only when they entered the fog bank that they realized this was no trick of the weather. They were surrounded by smoke: Brackenholme smouldered.