Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  Gretchen didn’t know what to say. Since she had discovered the outrider’s true identity some days earlier, he had confided in her. Trent had revealed the terrible guilt he carried with him. He’d taken sides against his brother, believing that Drew had killed their mother, and helped King Leopold in his campaign against the Wolf. She hadn’t pressed him on the tasks he’d carried out for the Lions, but judging by the shame he felt, she could imagine what they might have been. She didn’t doubt for a moment that Trent had killed in the name of the Lion, and that was something the young man would carry to his grave.

  ‘What’s going to happen to us?’ she whispered, breaking the awkward silence. Gretchen made no attempt to hide her fear. Neither of them did: they’d been running for so long, the pretence only added to their exhaustion.

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Trent replied wearily, ‘but we can’t go on as we are.’

  ‘We can keep riding. We’re wasting time sitting here talking. Come,’ said Gretchen, rising and striding over to Storm, taking the tattered reins in her hand. ‘Let’s go.’

  Trent stood, following and taking the leather straps from her. He smoothed his hand over the horse’s mane affectionately.

  ‘We won’t get far. I didn’t tell you earlier, but Storm went over on an ankle back there. If we push her now, through the night, she might break a leg.’

  A sickening sensation clawed at Gretchen’s throat as she realized what he proposed. ‘What would you suggest? We wait for the Wyldermen to catch up with us?’

  ‘Why not? Better to face them and be done with this hunt one way or the other.’

  ‘There are but two of us, though. You saw how many guarded the Dyre Gate!’

  ‘Let’s hope Stirga managed to draw a few away when we were separated then.’

  ‘This is madness, Trent. We need to keep moving. Let’s walk and lead Storm along behind if we must, but we cannot remain here.’

  ‘We don’t even know where we’re heading any more,’ said Trent. ‘North’s my best guess, but this forest has a way of throwing one’s sense of direction. We’re lost, Gretchen. If we can stop the Wyldermen, we may stand a chance of getting our bearings, but flight such as ours hardly allows us to stop and think, let alone catch something that could pass for a proper meal. I’m sorry, my lady, but I see no other way.’

  He was right, of course. They’d been fleeing from the Wyldermen for over a week, and had had no luck in shaking them loose. The two had survived on whatever they could find, be it mushrooms and edible mosses, or even insects when they’d come across them. No doubt the bugs in the rotten log would be harvested before they left camp. Without a bow, they’d been unable to hunt, but one of Trent’s makeshift snares had caught a young hare the previous morning. Only scraps of leveret meat remained, and the fugitives faced starvation unless something changed soon. Drew had survived through the two harshest seasons alone in the Dyrewood, and she and Trent had struggled to manage for a week. Not for the first time, Gretchen wished she could control her therianthropy so she could hunt.

  Reaching up into the tree beside Storm, Gretchen let her hands play over the vines that hung down, parting them like an emerald curtain. She took hold of one and gave it a firm tug, but the vine remained fixed in the darkness above. Placing both hands on the length of greenery, she hoisted her legs off the ground, allowing herself to swing momentarily, as the vine took her weight.

  ‘This is hardly the time for playing swing,’ said Trent, but the girl was moving again, walking across to the log the outrider had been leaning against. Placing both hands on it, she rolled it forward, as a handful of bugs scurried out from beneath it. She lifted her eyes to the frozen river.

  ‘How would you like a fire tonight?’ she asked, without looking at Trent.

  ‘It’s out of the question.’ They’d spent so many nights in the Dyrewood and not once had resorted to lighting a campfire. That was just the kind of signal the Wyldermen would be looking for, something to pinpoint the pair’s location.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Gretchen, looking back at him.

  ‘You may as well hoot and holler as light a fire if you want to catch the wild men’s attention.’

  ‘I think we’re resigned to the fact that they’re coming. As you said only moments ago, let’s face them on our terms. If that means with a bit of warmth in our flesh, then all the better for us. If tonight’s to be our last, let’s indulge ourselves a bit.’

  Trent frowned.

  ‘If this is your plan, it doesn’t seem terribly grand.’

  Gretchen allowed herself to smile, watching the Redcloak as he struggled to follow her thinking. Maybe Trent and Drew weren’t as alike as she’d imagined.

  ‘Tell me the idea of a flame under your hands doesn’t sound like heaven, Ferran.’

  Trent nodded reluctantly. ‘I can even cook the remainder of that hare. How’s that for a last supper?’

  Gretchen shivered, looking back across the frozen river. The ice had creaked and groaned as they’d passed across it, objecting to their passage, especially at the heart of the waterway. She glanced up into the treetops that arced out from their bank, hanging over the river like skeletal black fingers.

  ‘We could always hope their whole damn tribe turns up and they break the ice beneath their feet,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Now that would be a blessing from Brenn,’ said Trent, already foraging beneath the vines around the trees, away from where the snow had fallen. ‘Make yourself useful, my lady. Help me search for firewood. Rodents don’t cook themselves, you know.’

  Gretchen glowered at the young man from the Cold Coast, irritated by his impertinence.

  ‘You’re just like your brother,’ she said, bending her back as she picked up a damp stick from the forest floor.

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ replied Trent, grinning, white teeth shining in the gloom. His blue eyes twinkled mischievously. This was the first time she’d seen him smile, and she prayed it wouldn’t be the last.

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be a compliment.’

  4

  Downpour

  The shower had become a downpour. Campfires hissed and spluttered around the base of the Great Oak, the rain trying in vain to douse them. The more heavily it fell, the more violently the flames reacted, devouring the dry timber that had been stripped from the townhouses, belching smoke and steam back into the sky. The rain provided no hindrance to the Wyldermen; these woodland warriors were all too used to the elements. Each tribe had its own plot of earth, its own stake of land around the ancient tree roots. They vied with one another for prominence, jostling for position and proximity to the giant oak. High above, their Serpent goddess had made her nest, the wild men worshipping from far below. They gathered round the blazing piles of wood, turning the meat on their spits, bright tongues of fire licking at the bodies of their enemies.

  Drew strode between the campfires, White Skull at his side and Red Rufus behind. The constant rat-tat-tat of the rain provided a staccato accompaniment, each drop reminding Drew of the danger they were in. Most of White Skull’s warriors had broken away from the group now, disappearing into the encampment, with only three now following at their backs. Of Milo there was still no sign; Drew prayed he was safe. He was depending upon the boy, and the young Staglord’s task was onerous and fraught with peril.

  Even surrounded by a cannibal horde, Drew couldn’t help but marvel at the Great Oak. As they approached the huge tree, it grew ever larger and more impressive, its enormous trunk thrusting skywards like a terrible, dark spear. The rutted bark reminded him of the volcanic rock of Scoria’s Black Staircase, fissures breaking its surface in sharp jagged fault lines. The vague shape of the access lift was visible ahead, sitting close to the oak’s base, a thick length of rope disappearing into the gloom overhead. White Skull continued apace, leading them deep into the Wylderman camp.

  Drew turned to Red Rufus, who stared back, eyes wide with alarm. Drew could see the thin trickles of water running down the Haw
klord’s cheeks, tracing lines through the caked mud. Red Rufus’s gaze went down Drew’s body, and the young lycanthrope’s own eyes followed.

  He looked in horror at his forearms. They were being spattered by the rain, and the dry mud changing in consistency to slick, dripping mud. He watched in horror as rivulets of brown water raced across his flesh. Still, White Skull and his men marched forward, escorting the badly disguised duo on their way. The tree, thought Drew. They’re leading us straight to the Great Oak! But why?

  Drew checked his arms once again, as the rainwater ran clear from hand and stump, and his skin was washed clean. If White Skull were to look at him now, even in the dim light of dusk, the chances were that he’d recognize them for who they truly were. Drew looked back at the Hawk, walking with his head bowed, arms close to his chest, the sludgy snow stained brown with each footstep as the camouflage ran freely from his flesh.

  The Wolflord slowed, letting White Skull walk on, enough to chance a few whispered words to his friend.

  ‘Straight to the lift; stay close.’

  ‘This is madness,’ muttered Red Rufus, the mud falling in clumps from his soaking scalp and beard, revealing the bright ginger locks that had earned him his name.

  ‘Hush,’ said Drew as they approached the bamboo cage.

  A dozen Wyldermen sat in the filthy puddles around the lift’s base, some leaning on the bars, while others had their backs to the bark of the giant tree. They wore red feathers in their hair, the same as the ones that adorned Drew and his companion. White Skull thinks we’re with them! He’s returned us to our tribe! Many were eating, ripping into the charred meat they’d torn from the roasting spits. Drew blanched as he caught sight of recognizable body parts.

  A handful of the red-feathered warriors glanced up as the group approached. Drew nodded at Red Rufus, his hand reaching for the swaddled handle of Moonbrand on his back. White Skull barked words at the red-feathers, who jumped to their feet. One approached, squinting through the downpour at the two stragglers from his tribe. He saw the red-haired old man and the snarling youth with eyes that glowed yellow. The mud ran in rivers from their pale, pink flesh. Before he could shout a warning, Red Rufus’s long dagger shot forward, jabbing the man’s throat and sending him into the mud.

  The rest reached for their weapons, including White Skull and his men, but they were surprised by two Werelords materializing in their midst. The rain and smoke obscured their changing bodies, but their therian forms were unmistakable. Drew was the first forward. The Werewolf came at the Wyldermen, red feathers fluttering free from his pelt as his glowing white blade and teeth tore into the tribesmen. Wings erupted from Red Rufus’s back, rattling as the rain pounded on them, flexing as he leapt forward on monstrous avian feet. With the downpour and dusk cloaking them, the therianthropes had the elements on their side, but little had prepared them for the Wyldermen’s ferocity. Those with weapons threw themselves into Drew’s path, fearless in the face of the Werewolf and intent upon preventing him from reaching the lift. Those without blades attacked like wild animals, hands clawing and teeth snapping as they surged on to Wolf and Hawk. Drew felt flint and canine stabbing at him and pushed the pain to one side as he struggled to dispatch his enemies. Moonbrand sailed through the rain, opening up wild men and sending their limbs spinning through the air.

  More of the wild men joined the melee, leaving their camps to investigate the commotion. Within moments a mob surrounded the Werelords, the Wyldermen eager to engage in battle. Close combat wasn’t Red Rufus’s preferred style of fighting – he was an archer – but beggars couldn’t be choosers. His shortsword flashed and stabbed, his clawed feet kicking out and hooked beak ripping strips from the enemies’ exposed flesh.

  Drew had felled a dozen of the wild men, but as one dropped another replaced him. The Werewolf crashed into the bamboo bars of the lift, two Wyldermen on his broad back, and he scrabbled for purchase. He felt a knife jab into his ribs, while an axe glanced off his skull. His vision blurred as a club struck his right leg, dropping him to his knees. More of the wild men rushed him, dragging him to the ground, stamping and slashing. The lift was no longer visible, and the possibility of reaching it looked increasingly slim. Drew caught sight of an axe hurtling towards his head and lifted his left arm up at the last moment. The stone blade caught the stump, ringing off the bone and sending shockwaves coursing through the Werewolf’s body.

  A foot came down, submerging Drew’s shortened limb in the freezing mud. The Wyldermen tried to tear Moonbrand free from his hand, but Drew kept hold, death being the only thing that would part him from Wergar’s ancient blade. He tried to rise, but his progress was halted as a club smashed him across the face and sent his head back with a crunch. Hands swarmed over him, closing round his throat, gripping his muzzle, forcing his jaw to one side and submerging his face in the mud and melting snow. Bubbles rushed from his mouth and nose, as the brackish meltwater rushed down his throat. He could feel the sharpened teeth of the tribesmen all over his body. The irony wasn’t lost on Drew: a Werewolf, most savage of all Lyssia’s therianthropes, was being torn apart by a pack of humans. What fate has befallen Red Rufus? Milo?

  ‘For Brackenholme!’

  Even over the snarls of the Wyldermen, Drew recognized the man’s voice. Captain Harker’s cry was a rage-filled roar that screamed for vengeance. Many of the wild men who covered Drew were suddenly pushed clear as they faced new opponents. The tattered cloaks of green swirled overhead as Drew saw the men of the Woodland Watch throw themselves at the Wyldermen, tearing them off the besieged Wolflord. The Greencloaks carried makeshift weapons – sticks, rocks, lengths of rope – whatever they’d managed to gather from the corral. Many used their bare hands as they pushed and pulled the Wyldermen away, freeing the Werewolf from his foes. A thin hand helped him up, the familiar face of Milo smiling grimly.

  ‘You freed them!’ gasped the Werewolf, shaking his head as his senses returned.

  ‘For what good, I don’t know,’ said the young Staglord over the din of battle. A pair of short twisting horns had torn from his forehead, and a sword was raised in his other shaking hand. ‘I fear I’ve only sped them to Brenn’s arms!’

  ‘For Duke Bergan!’ cried Harker, a welcome face amid the fracas at the base of the Great Oak. The captain was at the heart of the fight, meeting a Wylderman’s axe blows with his bare fists. Having regained his footing, Drew joined the scrum of Greencloaks who struggled against the overwhelming odds. There were hundreds of Wyldermen, thousands in the city, no doubt. Milo was right: this would be a bloodbath. There were maybe fifty Greencloaks and a handful of townsfolk, beaten and exhausted, making a valiant last stand.

  Red Rufus pushed through the crowd towards Drew, pulling Milo along in a taloned hand, the boy’s head lolling; he was clearly concussed.

  ‘The tree, Drew!’ screeched the Hawklord. ‘You came to save your friends and stop the Serpent! Go now!’

  The old Hawk gave the Wolf a shove, urging him into the bamboo cage.

  ‘The mechanism!’ Drew shouted. ‘It’s at the top?’

  The Hawk nodded, about to answer when an arrow caught him, sending him flying into Drew’s arms. The Werewolf slipped and staggered through the cold mud, as the black-feathered flight of the missile trembled in Red Rufus’s hip. The grizzled avianthrope struggled to stay upright, reaching back to snap the arrow shaft in half.

  ‘You heard me, Drew,’ said Red Rufus, his eyes blinking as he tossed away the broken arrow. He gave the youth another push towards the cage. ‘The tree; go to your friends.’

  Before Drew could reply, the Hawk was engaged once again, standing over the dazed figure of Milo, the boy’s chin resting on his breastplate as he knelt in the mud, oblivious to the battle around him.

  This is a massacre. Vala must be stopped, even if it kills me.

  With new resolve he crouched and leapt, landing on the roof grille of the lift. The thick rope was twined through the bars, securely attached to the bamboo
cage. Drew looked around frantically, trying to work out how he could reach the Great Oak’s boughs. If the mechanism’s at the top, then I’m stuck down here! He looked at his missing left hand. It must be hundreds of feet to the treetop! He could try to climb the rope, use his clawed feet perhaps? It was dangerous, but his only hope.

  He was about to act when he felt a hand snatch at his ankle, his lycan foot tugged away, sending him face first on to the lift roof. He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of a pale, skeletal face appearing over the cage’s edge: White Skull – the chieftain had sought him out. Drew kicked out but White Skull was fast, dipping his head, dodging the blow. The warrior was on the roof quickly, swinging his axe down. Moonbrand came up, deflecting the blow and sending sparks showering off the flint axe head.

  White Skull punched the Werewolf in the muzzle twice in quick succession, and Drew’s head recoiled with each blow. Despite being human, the Wylderman was fearless, his face set in a terrible grin as he brought down another punch. His eyes were wild, the chieftain relishing the chance to fight the therianthrope. The Wolf’s mouth opened, catching the fist in his jaws. Drew snapped them shut, but before he could grind his teeth he felt the axe shaft strike his nose, the pain instant and dreadful, making him release his jaws. The axe flew down again, and a blind parry from Moonbrand sent it away.

  The two wrestled across the bars, rolling and bucking, each trying to overpower the other. Below, Drew spied four Wyldermen who had split away from the Greencloaks to get into the lift. They jabbed upwards with their spears, careful to avoid White Skull but keen to find the Werewolf. The chieftain grinned, letting his axe go with a clatter to take hold of the lycanthrope by the shoulders. With his only hand holding Moonbrand, Drew was helpless to prevent White Skull from rolling him over. As the two turned, the chieftain slowly got the upper hand, and Drew reached out with his legs, his transformed feet taking firm hold of the lift rope that disappeared into the dark sky overhead.