Nest of Serpents (Book 4)

by Curtis Jobling

  A few hundred feet directly below was the great arched roof of the White Bear’s palace, a complex spine of white stone and bleached timber hulking over Icegarden. With intricate flying buttresses supporting its great weight from the north and south, it reminded Hector of a monstrous spider whose enormous stone limbs straddled the city. Further below, house lights shone on the snow in the street, the city’s inhabitants clustered around the base of Henrik’s grand palace. Beyond the great ice walls the slopes of the Whitepeaks shone blue under the moon and stars, the vast frozen meadows rolling south towards the Badlands.

  The wind tugged at Hector, snatching at his cloak and making him wobble where he stood.

  So very high, brother, and to think … you used to suffer from vertigo as a child!

  The Vincent-vile was correct, of course. In addition to the many physical ailments Hector had endured in his early years, one of his greatest phobias had been of high places, yet here he was, conquering the fear. Even a visit to Bevan’s Tower in Highcliff would bring on the jitters when he was a boy. Now the Boarlord’s residence in Westland had very different and dark connotations, having been the scene of Vincent’s death at Hector’s hand.

  ‘Bevan’s Tower; my world turned upside down that day,’ he whispered. ‘It’s yet to right itself.’

  I’d say you got the better part of the deal, brother, hissed Vincent bitterly.

  The campfires of Duke Henrik’s army could be clearly seen several leagues away, dotting the length of the palisade wall the Sturmlanders had constructed across the mountains. The battlement wound up and down, an undulating black ridge on the horizon, like a monstrous serpent cresting a sea of snow. Further south were the Badlands proper, the bandit lands dotted with their own glowing campfires as the Lion’s army gathered for battle. Hector brought his eyes back to his eyrie, the Bone Tower rising high into the heavens, dwarfed only by the magnificent Strakenberg at his back. He still couldn’t quite believe that he’d seized the city, that his plan had worked.

  Everything had happened so fast he’d hardly had time to stop and breathe. Carver and the child had nearly caused chaos, eavesdropping on his plans, but that little fiasco had been nipped in the bud. The Thief-lord had been subdued by Hector’s most faithful Boarguard, Ringlin and Ibal making short work of the old rogue. The girl had given them the slip, but Hector didn’t fancy her chances much in the wild. The temperature had dropped below freezing with nightfall, and the mountains were sure to claim her scrawny life. And now he stood atop Icegarden – his city – pondering his next step.

  Your next step? asked Vincent, none of Hector’s thoughts sacred or secret. There was nothing the magister could think that wasn’t open to comment from the vile. That’s a giddy thought, brother, so high up. So close to the edge. Just imagine. One step …

  Hector shook his head, blinking, his vision blurring as the vile’s words washed over him. He found himself leaning further forward, looking down the entire length of the Bone Tower, the white masonry fading into the darkness below. Hector’s stomach lurched as he took a nervous step backwards, away from the drop. Vincent had fallen silent, for now. Although Hector had mastered the vile, the phantom’s powers of suggestion could never be underestimated, its words both poisonous and intoxicating depending upon its mood.

  A shadow flitted over the tower top, causing Hector to turn and look up. A dark shape passed over the moon above, circling sharply as it drew swiftly nearer. Hector glanced to the open stairwell a few feet away, tempted to call for Ringlin or Ibal, but realizing that should they hear him it would take them too long to reach him. He tugged the jewel-encrusted dagger from his belt and glared at the approaching avianthrope.

  With a few heavy beats of his wings, the Crowlord alighted on the Bone Tower beside Hector, his black taloned feet gripping the icy flags. Lord Flint shook his head, the frill of black feathers rattling as he blinked at Hector with a glassy, dark eye.

  ‘I think you can put the knife away, Blackhand,’ Flint cawed, his voice rough as a saw as his features began to shift. Gradually the wings retreated, the feathers and beak disappearing beneath the skin. ‘I’m no Hawklord, magister. You and I are allies, remember?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Hector warily, smiling as he resheathed the blade. The dagger was, of course, for show; the real damage, should it need to be dealt out, would be delivered by the vile. ‘What brings you to Icegarden, Lord Flint?’

  ‘Matters most urgent, Blackhand. My fears about the Vermirians were well founded. The Rats turned on my men at the gates of Stormdale, betraying us when we were about to seize the city. One of their archers killed my father, leading to a battle within our ranks.’

  ‘Grave news indeed,’ said Hector, studying the Crow. ‘I fail to see how this affects me, though, my lord?’

  Flint sneered, his twisting features contorting once more as they settled back into place. ‘The Catlords have their favourites, Boarlord. Do you really think – and I mean this with respect – a humble Werelord of the Dalelands can ever rise to a position of power at Lucas’s table? Even now Onyx calls for reinforcements from Bast, Werelords from his own continent to surround him and set to work in the Seven Realms. He will discard you, just as he intends to be rid of me and my brethren.’

  ‘You talk of ifs and maybes, Flint. I am Lord Magister to Prince Lucas, an important member of the King’s Council. My position is not under threat.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said the Crow, stroking his crooked jaw as he stepped alongside the Boar. He straightened the uneven waxy hairs over his black eyebrows as he peered over the edge to the city below.

  He is bluffing, brother; do not listen to him, Hector!

  ‘What have you heard?’ asked the magister, unable to refuse the bait.

  Flint shrugged sheepishly. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t say anything, but as the Catlords show their true colours I see no reason to hold my tongue. We all know that Lucas hates you. And now Onyx distrusts you – you’re a loose blade, too powerful and unpredictable. That little show with the dead scout back in the camp spooked the big cat properly. Well, the Beast of Bast would see you carry out your mission and then have me carry out mine …’

  Hector backed away a step, his retreat inadvertently bringing him closer to the edge.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he hissed, flexing his left hand, ready to unleash the vile at any moment.

  ‘You’ve served your purpose in Onyx’s eyes. You’ve got the city and Henrik’s out on a limb and likely to be cut down. The Werepanther wants the keys to Icegarden, Blackhand. And if that means peeling them out of your cold dead hands, then so be it.’

  Hector brought his emaciated limb up suddenly, the black palm open, fingers splayed.

  ‘Whoa!’ exclaimed Flint, backing up a step. ‘Steady, Blackhand. We’re allies, remember? Whatever task Onyx would have me do, rest assured I’ve no intention of seeing it through.’

  Hector glared at the Crow, a heartbeat away from unleashing the vile.

  Let me have him, brother. This would be so sweet … a therianthrope kill …

  ‘You would lose everything by turning against Lucas and Onyx, regardless of the atrocities in Stormdale,’ said Hector. ‘You’ll be just another enemy to add to the Lion’s long list, someone else to crush as the Cats subjugate Lyssia. Can you not reconcile your differences with the Rat King?’

  Flint shook his head, grinning grimly. ‘Lucas is fond of his Rats. I am not. This is the opportunity I spoke to you about, Blackhand. This is the chance for you and me to forge a new power in Lyssia. My army moves this way, waiting for our direction. It was but a fraction that worked under War Marshal Vorjavik in Stormdale. My men of Riven, joined with your warriors of Tuskun: was there ever a more savage army?’

  He makes a convincing case, Hector.

  ‘You say your army is already on its way? Have you not considered the conditions, the dangers?’

  ‘A bit of snow is nothing for the men of Riven to fear. We’re a mountain breed, not like these so
ft folk of the south. They will be here in a matter of days, under the command of Lord Scree. Onyx is oblivious to our movements, and we’ve kept a constant eye from the sky to ensure that remains the case. The armies of the Lion and the Wolf can throw whatever forces they have left at these walls once they’ve beaten each other to death. Only the long sleep awaits them at our feet, Blackhand.’

  Flint held his hand out to the magister, awaiting the other’s. Hector could find no more words, no counter to the Crowlord’s argument. If Flint was to be believed – and his view was convincing – then it appeared the magister had no option. A union with the Werelords of Riven was the only way forward. Hector reached out, allowing the Crow to grasp his wizened hand. Flint squeezed tight, pulling the Boarlord into an embrace. Some of the avianthrope’s oily black feathers had yet to recede from his chest and the young magister spluttered as they brushed his face, the sensation at once tickling and revolting him.

  ‘We keep this between ourselves for now,’ said the Crow, clapping Hector’s back. ‘We mustn’t alert Onyx to our plans. Let him think you and I still serve him, let him believe we’re his lackeys and unaware of his machinations. We will strike when he least expects it.’

  Flint craned his neck, whispering into Hector’s ear as he held the magister’s head to his dark bosom. ‘We have to keep our enemies close …’

  10

  Better Late Than Never

  If the Wolf’s Council that had governed Westland had seemed a peculiar crowd, it paled in comparison to the motley group who had gathered in its name in Brackenholme. The throne room was still in disarray, Vala’s occupation having taken its toll on the Great Hall, but in time, like the city, it would be returned to former glory. It’ll be an age before my mother can chase Vala’s stench away, thought Whitley as she sat in her father’s seat, looking across the chamber. Her first act as Lady of Brackenholme was to promote Captain Harker, a long overdue honour. The newly titled general stood a few steps down the dais, his face unreadable. He was black and blue with wounds and bruises, but had refused to be tended to. His place was beside his lord or lady.

  The boy from Stormdale stood beside the throne, keen to remain close to Whitley. Milo was a shadow of his former self after the battle he’d endured at the foot of the Great Oak. His eyes were lidded but unblinking, staring into nothingness. The young Stag had shown great bravery, leaping in front of an arrow destined for Red Rufus, and only his father’s shining breastplate had saved him from death.

  A dozen assorted Greencloak and Greencape officers stood on either side of the hall, heroes of the battle of Brackenholme to a man and woman. It warmed Whitley’s heart to see some familiar faces among their number, including Tristam and Quist, survivors of the escape from Cape Gala. Another of those soldiers, Machin, had been less lucky, killed during the initial attack on the Great Oaks. The events in the Horselord city seemed so very long ago now, although it was only a matter of months. So very much has happened, so many lives lost.

  A handful of Romari Zadkas had also gathered, the male elders of the travelling people who had rushed to the aid of Brackenholme in the final hour arriving in great numbers along the Dymling Road. Baba Soba, leader of the Romari, stood before them, her sightless gaze fixed on Whitley. The giant, Yuzhnik, stood beside her, Whitley catching a wink from him as her gaze passed by. The wound Darkheart had dealt him during Gretchen’s escape had been left untreated, festering and causing the surrounding flesh to go bad. He was a shadow of his former self, his imprisonment in the corral at the foot of the Great Oak having left him close to death’s door. The healers in the White Tree had since seen to the injury, but it would be some time until Yuzhnik would be truly mobile again, if ever.

  The blind old woman had been escorted straight to the Great Oak as her people entered the city, choosing Yuzhnik to be her eyes, the fire-eater having been so deeply involved in all that had occured that Soba could think of no better companion. He was another who Whitley could trust with her life, as the vagabond player had supported her through thick and thin. Yuzhnik had helped Gretchen escape from the Great Oak when the Wyldermen had struck. The Werelady had escaped with Stirga and the Redcloak, as they were currently discussing.

  It was Baba Soba who spoke. ‘The boy’s name was Trent Ferran. He was the brother of the Wolf.’

  ‘He was a Redcloak, though,’ said Quist, her voice fiery. ‘You saw it with your own eyes, did you not?’ She bit her lip as the words came out, instantly regretting her turn of phrase.

  ‘Not quite,’ laughed the blind soothsayer, tapping her temple with a bony finger, ‘but I saw into his heart. The young man had nothing but love for Drew Ferran, surrounded by layers of grief and regret. He will not do wrong by the Lady of Hedgemoor. Do not doubt his loyalty.’

  ‘I fought alongside him myself,’ said General Harker. ‘Try not to worry, Quist.’

  The tall woodlander grimaced. ‘I can’t help it, sir. Any man who dons the Red … well, that speaks volumes to me.’

  She remembers the ambush in Cape Gala by Redcloaks, thought Whitley. The Bearlady had been there herself, watching in horror as the soldiers of the Woodland Watch were cut down by the Lion’s men.

  ‘Try not to worry, friends,’ said Yuzhnik, speaking up at last. ‘My old friend Stirga is with them. Should this Ferran boy prove unfaithful – and the Baba says he won’t – then the minstrel’s rapier will find his heart.’

  The fire-eater’s words suddenly stirred Milo from his trance, and the boy left Whitley’s side to retreat down the steps to where his saddlebags still lay. As the hall was uninhabitable, every soul carried their belongings with them. The clean-up was already under way, and the sound of people working echoed through the treetop beyond the broken walls and windows.

  ‘Are you all right, Lord Milo?’ asked Whitley, alarmed by the boy’s strange behaviour. He had insisted on following Drew and Red Rufus from Stormdale as the Werelords had ridden for Brackenholme. The adventure he’d so desperately sought had proved far more damaging to his spirit than he could ever have imagined.

  The young Staglord returned from his kit bag, cradling something in his arms. He stepped gingerly past Whitley, down the steps of the dais and towards the Romari. Yuzhnik saw what he carried, his arm falling away from the Baba’s grip as he limped forward to meet the boy in the centre of the throne room. The boy gently handed the item over: a broken lute, its neck splintered, its strings snapped. The big man looked at the musical instrument, tiny in his huge hands. He nodded to the boy, no words passing between them. Whitley wanted to cry, wanted to sob for the loss of another of her friends, but she couldn’t, not now; the time for mourning would come. For now, she had to be strong, for Brackenholme.

  ‘What of the wolves?’ she asked, leaving the lame Romari and the boy from Stormdale in one another’s grief-laden company.

  ‘They remain within the city, my lady,’ answered Baba Soba. ‘They’re gathered below the White Oak presently.’

  Duchess Rainier was convalescing in the White Oak, where the healers cared for her and others who had been injured during the Wyldermen’s reign of terror.

  ‘I know they’re kin to Lord Drew, but they give me the shivers,’ said Tristam.

  ‘You’ve nothing to fear from the wolves,’ said Baba Soba. ‘They’re proud, noble animals. They answered his call.’

  Hundreds of wolves had poured into the city after Drew’s howl had shaken Brackenholme and the surrounding forest. It was the wolves that had turned the tide in the battle, drawing the Wyldermen away from the Greencloaks as they tore into them in packs. The Romari had surged through the Dymling Gate next, having ridden north from the Longridings to the aid of the Wereladies, breaking the ranks of panicked wild men. Better late than never, mused Whitley, thankful for the presence of their saviours.

  ‘I must ask the question,’ said Baba Soba. ‘What is to be done next?’

  ‘We must secure Brackenholme,’ replied Whitley. ‘Repair the defences, reinforce the palisades.
The Wyldermen may yet return.’

  ‘The Wereserpent may no longer lead them,’ said Harker, ‘but there are others who may try and step into her void. Darkheart is still at large, unaccounted for among the fallen Wyldermen.’

  Whitley sneered at mention of Vala’s right-hand man, the monster who had posed as Rolff.

  ‘But you’re correct,’ continued Harker. ‘The walls do need our immediate attention, the gates especially. Those people unscathed who were holed up in the Garrison Tree can be put to work immediately. I suspect we’ll have to argue with the injured to keep them in their beds, such is the desire of Brackenholme’s people to repair their spoiled city.’

  To Whitley’s relief, the Wyldermen hadn’t slain all the inhabitants of her city, although not a single family survived untouched by their murderous rampage. Many hundreds had fled to the Garrison Tree, making their stand against the enemy from within its blackened trunk. The wild men had laid siege to the enormous oak, trying to burn its wizened bark and hacking at it with axes, but the ancient tree had withstood attack by flame and flint, impervious to harm while one of its sisters was ablaze. When the wolves and Romari had arrived, the defenders had sallied forth, joining the battle, finally meeting their foe in the streets of Brackenholme.

  ‘The rebuilding won’t be accomplished fast,’ added Harker. ‘It will take years for us to return Brackenholme to its former glory, but thanks to your aid in our time of need, my lords, we can begin today.’

  ‘And the remaining force of the Catlords?’ said Whitley. ‘They’ve taken the Dalelands and Westland for their own. The Longridings is lost, with only the Bull, Duke Brand and Lord Conrad’s surviving Horselords providing resistance in Calico.’