Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  The Wyldermen below saw White Skull turning the Werewolf. Finally he was on top, his bare back exposed above, dark fur bristling between the bars. As they readied to strike, Drew lashed out with Moonbrand, every ounce of his strength focused on the sword. The glowing blade swung round, and White Skull was relieved that the blow missed him. But White Skull was not aware of the Werewolf’s target.

  Moonbrand scythed through the rope as the Wyldermen in the cage decided to strike. The sword tore through the thick hemp that was bound around the bars. Instantly, Drew was catapulted skywards, his powerful clawed feet clenching tightly round the rope’s end. White Skull spun and crashed back on to the cage roof, the four spearheads striking through the grille, entering his body and emerging from his back.

  Drew watched the dead Wylderman and the battle disappear from view as he raced into the heavens, another lift hurtling by in the opposite direction, empty and earthbound. He looked up, holding on to the rope for dear life, as the dark branches of the Great Oak rushed to meet him.

  5

  Snowstorm

  The Lord of Thieves ran. In his arms, Bo Carver carried Pick, her head buried in the crook of his neck as fresh winds picked up the snow. He glanced back towards the palace nervously, expecting the Boarguard to emerge from the ornate doors at any moment. Icegarden’s townhouses lit the way, and he ploughed on, his feet struggling for purchase on the icy street. The building he aimed for was the one he’d spied earlier that day: the garrison. The huge grey building covered the length of the northern quarter, buttressing the enormous wall of ice that protected the capital from invasion. The entrance to the building was beside the Strakenberg Gate, hidden in shadows, its great doors closed against the elements. He skidded to a halt and searched for a handle. Finding none he balled his fist, hammering on the wooden door.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ came the reply from within, briefly followed by laughter. Carver bit his lip, looking back to the palace once more: still no sign of movement. A wooden slat slammed to one side, revealing a long-faced guardsman who peered out of the spyhole.

  ‘What the devil’s got into you?’

  ‘The city,’ said Carver. ‘It’s in danger.’

  The guard dipped his head one way and the other, looking past the Thief-lord into the darkness beyond.

  ‘Who would you be, anyway?’ asked the man suspiciously.

  ‘A guest of Duke Henrik’s. You need to listen: there are men in the palace who mean to attack Icegarden.’

  ‘What men?’

  ‘Who is it?’ called another guard.

  The man turned. ‘Says he’s a guest of His Grace. Don’t look like a nobleman, mind.’

  ‘You’re wasting time!’ said Carver, looking back to the palace once more. The double doors were wide open, but there was no sign of anyone in the street. He reached through the spyhole and caught the man by the collar.

  ‘They’re coming,’ he snarled. ‘Raise the alarm, do whatever it is you’re supposed to do, but ready your weapons. How many man your walls?’

  The man was struggling, trying to free himself from Carver’s iron grip, while his companions could be heard rushing to his aid. Carver shook him and pulled him close, dragging the man’s shirt collar through the opening until his ear was flush to the hole.

  ‘How many men on the wall?’

  ‘Three dozen!’ said the man, panicked.

  ‘And in there?’

  ‘The same number!’

  ‘Wake them, move them!’ He released his grip, and the startled watchman fell into his companions’ arms. ‘Do it now!’ shouted Carver. To the Thief-lord’s relief, the command in his voice was enough to spur the guards into action without further questions. Carver wasted no time, rushing up to the Strakenberg Gate where he found another locked door. The stone structure of the gatehouse framed the giant steel doors to the city, the wall’s polished blocks of ice sitting flush to its edge. He hammered on the guards’ door, looking back nervously.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Pick, icy tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Hush, child,’ said Carver, with an unconvincing smile. He tugged her cloak round her chin and smoothed the hood against her head.

  ‘Who goes there?’ The call came from above. Carver looked up and saw three helmed heads peering over the frozen battlements.

  ‘Bo Carver. I’m lodging in the castle as a guest of your duke. You have to listen: the city’s in danger. You saw the Ugri warriors who arrived today from the front line?’

  The men above nodded, as the door to the garrison finally opened. A procession of soldiers made their way out, some half-dressed, clearly having been asleep while they rested from watch. Many were still buckling on their armour, one man stopping to stretch and yawn.

  ‘I saw them come, aye. I was on the South Gate this afternoon when you arrived. You’re with them, no?’

  ‘Thank Brenn,’ said Carver, relieved to have found someone he could get some sense out of. ‘I was indeed. We thought they were allies. That’s not the case.’

  ‘This fool’s woken the barracks, Harlan!’ shouted the accosted guard.

  ‘They’re planning something!’ continued Carver, addressing the man on the wall named Harlan. ‘They’re going to attack!’

  Right on cue, the arrows whistled, six flights finding targets in the men who had shambled out of the garrison building. The soldiers went down, felled in seconds, those still standing either looking around frantically or dashing back towards their barracks. Fresh arrows flew from the darkness, leaving many of the fleeing men dead in their tracks.

  ‘Let me in!’ yelled Carver, pounding the gate door with renewed fury. ‘I have a child here!’

  ‘Open the door!’ Harlan shouted into the guardhouse.

  A handful of fully armed guards who had emerged from the garrison took cover in the street, ducking behind the walls of homes and outhouses, but the confusion in their ranks was clear. They called for crossbows, cried for reinforcements, begged to know where the arrows had come from, but in each case found no answer. Carver’s eyes, already accustomed to the dark, flitted across the road, searching the shadows for movement. Here and there he caught sight of a figure passing in and out of the darkness of the buildings opposite, drawing ever closer. An arrow bounced off the wall beside his head.

  Carver dropped to his knees, curling his body round Pick, his back to the street. He looked over his shoulder as he saw the first of the Ugri lope out of the shadows, quickly followed by five more. Their bows were put away now, and the warriors had resorted to their formidable array of melee weapons – axes, war mattocks, maces and morning stars – all sure to do a great deal of damage to an unarmoured man like Carver. Three ran straight towards the garrison, one of them carrying a burning oil flask in his hand, while the other three came straight for the gatehouse.

  The first Ugri kicked at the garrison door just as the guards within were trying to close it, the wooden barrier twisting on its hinges as his companion with the flaming oil pulled back his arm to throw. A flurry of bolts sailed down from the Strakenberg Gate, one of them hitting the clay flask in the Ugri’s hand. The oil pot exploded, its contents spilling over the warrior’s head and torso, the oily pelts he wore adding fuel to the fire. Any ordinary man might have dropped to the floor, and tried to douse the flames by rolling in the snow, but not the Ugri. He rushed over the broken threshold of the garrison, his body alive with flames, the screams from the Sturmlanders within suddenly rising a notch. His two brothers followed him into the building, seeking out their enemies.

  The final three closed on Carver, the lead warrior recognizable to the Thief-lord as Two Axes. Where are the others? Where are Ringlin and Ibal? Where’s Hector? Two Axes covered the distance fast, his arms trailing behind him as he charged, leaning into the wind, feet dancing over the ice with well-practised grace. Crossbows sang overhead, bows twanged, bolts and arrows bouncing off the ice and skittering harmlessly away as the Ugri dodged them. In each fist the Ugri chi
eftain carried an axe, their dark blades shining menacingly. The door suddenly opened in front of Carver, and gauntleted hands reached out to grab hold and haul him in.

  The Thief-lord shoved Pick into the guards’ arms, pushing the girl up the stairs as two more forced the door shut behind him. Carver looked back as he ran up the steps. The guards had hold of the deadbolt, about to slam it in place, when the door crashed open, crushing one of the Sturmlanders instantly behind it. The foot of the stairwell was littered with splintered timbers as Two Axes stepped through the broken door frame. The second guard raised his sword against the Ugri, but one blow from an axe at close quarters sent the sword ricocheting into the man’s face, a second axe striking him in the guts below his breastplate.

  Carver raced on, following on another Sturmlander’s heels as the soldiers hurried Pick up the stairs. Behind, Carver could hear the Ugri clambering over the wood and bodies as they came after him. The torchlight at the top of the staircase lit up a small guardroom, machinery and cogs lining one wall, the door from which opened on to the battlements. Pick and the two remaining soldiers from the tower disappeared out on to the ice wall, and Carver recognized the figure of Harlan at the door, beckoning him frantically.

  ‘Hurry!’ he cried, snatching at Carver’s hand and dragging him on to the ice wall. The door was slammed shut and more bolts rammed into place, sealing it closed behind him. Instantly the sound of axes striking the wood could be heard; the door trembled with each blow as the Ugri within set to work on the timber.

  ‘How many of them are there?’ asked Harlan, readying his broadsword. About a dozen armed men had gathered round the top of the Strakenberg Gate, prepared to cut down the Ugri should they break through the barrier. Carver could tell from Harlan’s uniform that he was a captain, clearly the officer charged with manning the walls in the absence of the army.

  ‘Six Ugri, and the Boarlord Hector has a couple of others in his service, of which I’ve seen no sign.’

  ‘A Boarlord?’ said the captain. ‘An enemy of the Free People? It’s unheard of!’

  ‘Yet it’s a fact,’ said Carver, gasping for air. ‘The fool in the garrison said you had around thirty men on the wall?’

  ‘Indeed: we also have the duke’s household guard within the palace, as well as a few hundred townsfolk who can be called upon. I’ll send word along the wall, have the militia roused. That’s more than enough to deal with eight men, nine at a push if you throw in the traitorous Boar.’

  The axes stopped striking the door, the sudden silence taking Carver and the Sturmlanders by surprise. Harlan and the Thief-lord looked at one another, while Pick stared up at them fearfully.

  ‘Have they given in?’

  Before Carver could answer, the deep boom of a hunting horn reverberated from behind the door, making them all jump with alarm. Three loud blasts were sounded, each one chilling the defenders’ blood.

  ‘They’ll hear that in the Strakenberg mines,’ said a soldier, shifting his domed helm nervously with his gauntlet.

  After the last blow on the horn, the axes began their work again, striking the door, the pace quickening.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked another guard, as Harlan watched Carver step gingerly to the wall’s edge, looking out into the great white landscape beyond. The captain followed, Pick standing between them.

  Carver’s eyes scanned the white slopes beyond the walls, as the moonlight made the snowfields sparkle like a sea of glittering gems.

  ‘By the dead …’ whispered Carver as Captain Harlan made the sign of Brenn. Pick’s hand tightened round the Thief-lord’s as they watched the snow come to life.

  The slopes shuddered as if a tremor had passed beneath them, disturbed by a wave of movement. Snow tumbled as figures rose from the ground, the fine white powder falling from their bodies as they climbed from their hiding places. More and more Ugri appeared, icy golems standing to silent attention as far as the eye could see, surrounding the frozen walls of Icegarden. Carver cursed under his breath. What are they waiting for?

  ‘There are hundreds,’ gasped Harlan, swinging his broadsword anxiously at his side.

  A horrifying notion hit Carver like a hammer blow. He turned to the captain suddenly, snatching at his shoulder.

  ‘The mechanism for the gates, Harlan; where is it?’

  Harlan didn’t need to answer. The gates were already stirring into life, Two Axes’ companions working the wheels within the guardroom. The soldiers glanced down from the walls in horror as the gates opened silently outwards, the army beyond the city suddenly surging into life. Hundreds of Ugri dashed through the snow, weapons raised above their heads, a silent horde of death rolling down the mountainside towards them.

  ‘Close the gates!’ roared Harlan, pushing through his men to the guardhouse door. A trio of soldiers stood ready, shields and swords raised. Taking hold of the deadbolts, the captain cranked them back into their brackets as the door cracked open, another axe blow sending it flying on its hinges. Two Axes stood there, his skin coated in sweat, a weapon in each hand as he leapt through the opening. The first axe smashed into a Sturmlander’s shield, launching the man into his companions, while one of the soldiers lunged, catching the Ugri in the armpit. The other axe scythed round, shattering the jaw of the soldier who’d hit him, and Two Axes’ booted foot caught the third in the chest.

  Carver looked beyond the warrior into the guardhouse: the remaining two Ugri stood at their chieftain’s back, ready to defend the wheel mechanism with their lives. A glance down the icy incline revealed the first of the Ugri soldiers flooding through the huge opening: the Strakenberg Gate had fallen, Icegarden was breached.

  The Thief-lord snatched up Pick, shouting for Harlan’s attention, the captain mesmerized by the ferocity of Two Axes’ assault.

  ‘Is there another way down from the walls, Captain?’

  ‘The South Gate!’ replied Harlan, his eyes never straying from the Tuskun warrior. His men’s blades were connecting with their enemy, but the chieftain was berserk, ignoring the blows and giving many in return. ‘Hurry: it may be your only chance of getting the child to safety!’

  Carver was running, skidding along the wall top, grateful for the flags the Sturmlanders had embedded along the parapet. He looked down to his left, catching sight of the barracks on fire, flames gorging hungrily on the structure’s wooden roof. The Ugri were working their terrible magic within, spreading chaos and death wherever they went. Pockets of the Tuskun warriors could be seen running through the city, kicking in the doors of townhouses, the screams of the occupants growing into a crescendo.

  The Thief-lord turned the north-west corner of the wall, heading south, passing the occasional guard running in the opposite direction towards the Strakenberg Gate. No words passed between them: the looks on their horrified faces told their tale. Reaching the end of the western wall, Carver sprinted the final length of the frozen parapet towards the South Gate. The door to the guardhouse was wide open, the men having abandoned their positions to rush into the city and repel the invaders. The cause was lost, any fight in vain. Icegarden had been taken by the Ugri, stolen from them by the Boarlord’s duplicity. Carver had been right all along.

  He put Pick down gingerly and set to work on the gate mechanism in the guardhouse, straining hard on a handle that was designed to be turned by three men. Gradually the wheel moved, the cogs turning painfully slowly as Carver’s muscles burned with the effort. He gave it three revolutions and left it, praying to Brenn that the huge steel doors had opened enough to let the two of them out. There was nothing he could do in the city: he had to get word back to the front line, to the two Bearlords, let them know the fate that had befallen the Sturmish city behind them. Lifting Pick up once again he set off down the stairwell, her teeth clacking against one another with each pounding step, her body lying limp in his arms. Reaching the ground he found the door at street level swinging on its hinges, a trail of guards’ footsteps disappearing through the snow into the
city. Carver stepped into the street.

  The gates were open a crack, big enough for Pick to slip through, but a squeeze for Carver. He pushed her on, gentle enough not to hurt, but firm enough to propel her out of the city. The girl looked back, eyes wide and tearful.

  ‘One moment,’ he whispered. The Thief-lord shifted his weapon belt round his hip, breathing in as he tried to slip through the narrow opening. He cursed aloud as he felt a sharp pain in his side. One of his daggers, perhaps? With a sickening realization, Carver knew it wasn’t one of his blades at all, the cut too deep and purposeful to be a mere accident. He looked back, coming face to face with Ringlin; it was the rogue’s long knife buried in his flank.

  Ringlin yanked Carver back, the Thief-lord dropping to his knees, blood flowing freely from the injury, pooling in the snow around him.

  ‘Run, child!’ he shouted, as Ringlin dashed to the gap in the gates, trying to squeeze through, his hand reaching out and snatching at Pick. The girl stumbled out of reach, falling into the snow, as the villain began to work his way through the opening.

  ‘Run to Bergan, Pick!’ cried Carver, his vision fading as a coldness raced through his aching body. ‘Run for your –’

  His last cry was cut short as Ibal’s sickle came down with a sickening crunch.

  6

  Terror in the Treetops

  The Wyldermen gathered round the lift hatch, half expecting to see the other cage arrive after the first had departed so suddenly. Instead, the severed end of the rope flew into sight, whipping against the enormous wheel that spun above them. The three wild men stared at the rope as its lashing motion snared it within the mechanism, the wheel screeching to a halt as it bit into the hemp. Each warrior stepped forward to the platform’s edge, curiosity getting the better of them as they looked down through the rain.

  Drew was already moving, his lupine form leaping across the thick branches that supported the wooden landing, the footsteps of the Wyldermen echoing overhead. He hopped through the shadows, clawed feet and hand gripping the bark, Moonbrand strapped into his back scabbard again. On the far side of the platform the wooden planks were stacked on top of one another. Straining, Drew reached up, his clawed hand taking a firm hold of the uppermost board, claws burrowing into the timber for the strongest purchase. The Werewolf took a couple of deep breaths before swinging out and round, throwing his body into the night in a fluid motion. He released his hold once his legs had passed beyond the horizontal, allowing his momentum to carry him on to the landing. He rolled, coming up growling as the three guards turned in surprise.