‘Many Romari still fight in the Longridings,’ interjected the old Romari woman. ‘All is not lost.’
‘I thank you once more for coming to the aid of Brackenholme, Baba Soba,’ said Whitley.
The Baba smiled and nodded. ‘The Wolf’s allies are everywhere,’ she replied as one of the Romari Zadkas spoke up.
‘Lord Drew’s friends may indeed number many, but they’re fractured and far flung. Word reached us that Prince Lucas’s greatest army has gathered in the Whitepeaks, under the command of Onyx, the Beast of Bast. Icegarden’s their goal,’ said the man. ‘If Duke Henrik falls, that truly leaves no one to stand in the prince’s way. He could crown himself tomorrow if he likes: this is no longer about gathering a majority decision from each of the Seven Realms.’
‘It’s conquest that Prince Lucas seeks,’ said Baba Soba quietly. ‘Total subjugation of the free people of Lyssia.’
‘This is all well and good, discussing what the next course of action is,’ said Harker, looking around the room at the assembled counsellors. ‘But we’re missing a vital voice in any decision-making.’
‘I shall speak with him,’ said Whitley, walking down from the dais and striding from the throne room.
Drew sat on the stool beside the bed as the magister stepped away. The Wolflord said nothing, his eyes fixed on the bed. Patting his shoulder once, the healer turned to the open door, finding the Lady of Brackenholme at the threshold. Standing to one side, Whitley smiled awkwardly as the magister left the chamber, the door swinging shut behind him. The air in the room was thick with incense, smoking herbs having alleviated the falconthrope’s suffering. Whitley walked over to Drew, coming to a halt beside him and crouching by his side. His sword was propped against the wall beside his backpack, his weapon belt hanging from the scabbard, trailing to the floor. She placed her arm round his shoulder and followed his gaze to the deathbed.
Drew held the bony hand of Red Rufus in his, the Hawklord’s scarred and bloody knuckles broken from battle. A thin white sheet was draped over the old bird, folded back beneath his chin, and she had the impression of a man sleeping peacefully. His eyes were closed, never to reopen. Candles burned on either side of the bed, their perfume masking the grim smell of the injured body. A wooden pail stood in the corner of the room, full to the brim with blood-soaked bandages.
‘The injuries were too great,’ Drew whispered, biting his lip.
‘Were you here? When he passed?’
Drew nodded mournfully.
‘We spoke.’ Drew sniffed, a brief laugh catching in his throat. ‘He called me a wet fool for crying: he was a curmudgeon to his last breath.’
‘I never knew him,’ said Whitley, resting her head on Drew’s shoulder. ‘It sounds as though you grew quite close to one another.’
Drew smiled.
‘In a strange way we did. We may not have agreed with one another very often, but Red Rufus was as brave a man as I ever met. I’ll miss him, and his foul temper.’
The Hawklord had taken the fatal blow at the base of the Great Oak, the wolves and Romari arriving a moment too late to prevent a Wylderman’s spear from being driven clean through him. His heart had stood in the blade’s path, and the wild man hadn’t missed. It had taken all the healers’ knowledge to keep him alive this long, but with his dying words he’d expressed his love and admiration for the young Wolflord. The words would stay with Drew to his grave.
Whitley patted her friend’s back. ‘They’re waiting for you in Brackenholme Hall. They won’t make any decisions without you.’
‘Makes a change from your father’s style, Whitley; I was the last person he’d consult when deciding what the Wolf’s Council would do.’
‘Maybe they’ve learned from his mistakes,’ she said, only half-joking. It was well known that Drew and Bergan hadn’t often seen eye to eye, with the Bearlord having the final say in all decisions.
‘Perhaps they see me as a man, a boy no more?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Whitley. ‘You still have an astounding ability to get yourself into trouble.’ She placed her hands over the stump of his left wrist, Drew twitching at her touch before allowing her palms to settle over it. ‘Does it still hurt?’
Drew’s eyes remained on Red Rufus. ‘It’s nothing, in the grand scheme of things,’ he said, rising from the stool.
‘And talking of grand schemes, what do you intend to do?’
Drew turned to her, startled for a moment. If I’m a boy no more, then what’s Whitley? She bore little resemblance to the scared tomboy scout he’d met in the Dyrewood so long ago. Her hair was braided, piled on top of her head in the fashion of a noblewoman of the Bearlord’s court. She wore a long ivory dress, laced with tiny flowers along the cuffs and throat. Her big brown eyes stared into his intently, searching for an answer.
‘All roads seem to lead to Icegarden. If that’s where Lucas has headed with his army, would it be rude if I didn’t join him? We are family, after all,’ he added grimly.
‘And Gretchen?’ asked Whitley, her eyes still fixed on his.
‘She disappeared into the Dyrewood, a Redcloak in her company. Not my choice of bodyguard, but if he can keep her safe he may be able to buy a pardon. Whoever he is, if he harms her –’
‘Hush,’ said Whitley, placing a finger to his lips. ‘You haven’t heard. The Redcloak who’s with her: it’s your brother Trent.’
‘What?’ Drew rocked on the stool, the news hitting him like a body blow. His vision blurred momentarily, a light-headedness washing over him, threatening to send him to the floor. ‘How can that be? Trent a Lionguard?’
‘I don’t know, Drew. But he’s your brother, all right, according to the Romari.’
Drew suddenly felt torn as never before. To hear that Trent lived was joyous news, tempered by the knowledge that he’d taken the Red with the Lion. That Gretchen was out in the wilds with his brother as her companion provided solace, but in the Dyrewood with a Lionguard? Drew felt fresh nausea rise. Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, he tried to chase away the building headache. When he closed his eyes he saw two faces: Trent and Gretchen. Are you still my brother, Trent? Or my enemy? The more he thought about it, the more the pain intensified. Lyssia: that was his priority. A battle awaited him, greater and more terrible than any other he’d faced, the lives of all in the Seven Realms depending upon his actions. He could let nothing stand in the way of his destiny.
‘So Lucas marches on Icegarden, his army led by Onyx? Duke Henrik awaits the Catlord forces in the field alone?’
‘Who could come to his assistance?’ replied Whitley. ‘His neighbours are overrun. Westland and the Dalelands belong to Lucas. My father, if he lived, would ride to Henrik’s aid, I don’t doubt it, even with a depleted Woodland Watch.’
‘There are other Bearlords in the forest, are there not? You need to regroup, rebuild the Greencloak army as best you can. Prepare for the worst; Lucas is not done with the Woodland Realm, Whitley. Brackenholme is still a target for our enemies, and you need reinforcements. Your uncle, Baron Redfearn – if word hasn’t yet been sent to Darke-in-the-Dyrewood, you should do so.’
‘I’ll speak to Harker, see that it’s done.’
‘And still no news from Azra,’ added Drew.
‘Nothing,’ said Whitley bitterly.
Drew had hoped that the war in the east might have ended favourably, with the Hawklords having flown to King Faisal’s side. A vast army had marched upon the Jackal’s lands, bolstered by ranks of Doglords. With no news having reached them of their allies’ fortunes, he feared the worst.
‘And Calico is besieged,’ said Whitley. ‘The Horselords remain trapped within Duke Brand’s city, unable to take to the field. The Bastians have blockaded the city by land and sea. The war spreads in every direction, and the balance swings in the felinthropes’ favour.’
Sturmland in the north, Omir in the east, the Longridings in the south; wars being lost on every front,
but there was one point of the compass where hope yet remained. A fledgling idea began to take shape in Drew’s head.
‘Our answer lies to the west.’
‘Westland has fallen, Drew. The people may still love you, but the army wears the Red once more. You have no allies there.’
‘Further west,’ said Drew, remembering what he’d heard. ‘Some brave souls have taken the fight to the Catlords. The White Sea, Whitley; if we find who has been attacking the Catlords’ fleet, maybe we find that elusive ally.’
‘And then?’
‘Who knows, but it’s a start.’ Drew looked to the bed, staring at the covered body of his departed friend. He thought of the Hawklord’s words and smiled bitterly. ‘Every journey starts with a small step, every wave a ripple.’
Drew reached down and grabbed his weapon belt, swinging it about his waist as he tugged the tongue of leather through the steel buckle. The belt snapped into place, Moonbrand swinging weightlessly on his hip. He turned to his friend, catching her looking at Red Rufus’s body. ‘I need to prepare for the road, Whitley. Is Bravado ready?’
‘Our horses are in the stables by the Garrison Tree,’ she said, pulling her gaze back to the young Wolflord. ‘They’re ready when we are.’
‘We?’ said Drew incredulously. ‘You’re mistaken if you think you’re joining me. You need to stay here. Your people need you. Brackenholme needs you.’
‘My mother’s recovering. It’s the duchess the people need, not her daughter.’
Drew snarled, unimpressed by her remarks.
‘I forbid you to come, Whitley. I couldn’t abide it if my actions were to put you in further danger.’
Whitley growled back, the Wolf’s intimidation having no effect on her. ‘You don’t understand, Drew Ferran. It’s up to me if I decide to put myself in harm’s way. You don’t have a say in this, be you king or shepherd boy.’
Beyond the House of Healing, at the base of the White Oak, the wolves began to howl, a haunting song for their brother high above. Drew turned his head to the door, hearing their call.
‘Besides …’ said Whitley, kissing him on the cheek before striding towards the door. Drew’s hand went to his face, his colour rising. The Bearlady of Brackenholme turned back just once, adding her final words on the matter.
‘You still need a scout.’
Epilogue: The Dymling Bridge
The Redwine River carved a mighty path across Lyssia, cutting through four of the Seven Realms, from the Barebones at its source to Westland where it emptied into the White Sea. The Dymling Bridge straddled the fast-flowing waters at its halfway point, carrying the road of the same name north into the Dalelands from the dark depths of the Dyrewood. In times long gone, settlements had existed on both sides of the bridge, with its ownership a source of constant dispute. These towns and their inhabitants had long since turned to dust, the stone thoroughfare’s proximity to the Woodland Realm attracting the wilderness’s more nefarious denizens; the Wyldermen of the Wyrmwood had ensured that the lands around the Dymling Bridge could never be settled.
The small wooden tower was a new addition to the southern bank, at the point where the bridge met the river bank. Having taken the Dalelands with little resistance, the Lionguard had built the guard post initially as a temporary structure, their intention being to construct one out of stone once the war in the north finally drew to a close. A larger camp was stationed on the north bank, housing fifty men and a team of fast horses, ready to send for reinforcements should the need arise. The horses remained in their stables, growing idle, the need never having arisen. Who would attack the Lion’s forces so deep in their occupied territory?
Six men manned the watchtower, the most onerous shift always that which passed through the witching hour. It was in the dead of night when the tales were told, myths rekindled of the monsters that had once wandered the river banks and nearby forest: giants, ghouls, rabid river-hags and trolls that would snap a man’s bones to slurp out the marrow. One such tale was now recounted by an old Redcloak, newly conscripted from the Kinmoors.
‘I swear,’ said the old soldier, ‘this whole river is cursed. The river men won’t work it at night from here to beyond the Bott Marshes. Haunted, it is.’
‘By what?’ asked his officer, a far younger man, scratching his jaw as he yawned. ‘The ghosts of other yokels you’ve bored to death down the years?’
Three more soldiers chuckled as they sat nearby playing cards, while the last of their number stood atop the wooden structure, enduring the cold winter weather alone. The men could hear the wind howling beyond the walls, snarling at the tower top overhead.
‘Mock me all you like,’ said the old guard. ‘I grew up round these parts. There’s more to fear than them wild men in the Wyrmwood. There’s things in the river what ought to be avoided. The Marshmen they call ’em down my way.’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ said the young officer, rising and stretching. Picking up a lantern, he set off towards the door just as the sound of footsteps could be heard hurrying down the tower from above. He slammed the deadbolts back in their brackets. ‘I’m off out to stretch my legs, if anyone wants to join me. See if I can find one of your bog-trotting marsh men and shake him by his webbed hand.’
He grabbed the door handle just as the duty guard landed down the staircase, his face white with worry.
‘Captain!’ he exclaimed, ‘don’t –’
It was too late. The handle had already turned, and the door swung outwards, caught by the wind so it clattered on its hinges. The captain squinted into the white world beyond the tower, the snow and sleet driving across the road and finding its way into the guard room. He could see them now, working their way towards the tower, a band of spectral silhouettes materializing through the gloom. There were maybe twenty of them, their spears and axes carried menacingly at their sides, shaggy hair whipped about by the blizzard. The captain gasped, instinct telling him to shut the door instantly as the Redcloaks at his back began to panic. He peered out of the door, reaching for the handle, only for a spear to strike the timber, causing him to recoil. He staggered back, drawing his longsword as the first of the monsters approached, the whites of its eyes and sharp teeth catching his lantern light.
The other Lionguard rallied round their captain, all except for the old man who newly wore the Red. As his companions snatched their swords, the veteran storyteller backed away, clawing at the walls, his face pale with horror.
‘It’s the Marshmen! They’ve come for us! They’ll take us all!’
‘The horn!’ the captain screamed. ‘Signal the camp!’
The old man reached for the horn hanging chained to the wall beside him. By the time he’d brought it to his lips, their foes were in the room and a flint spearhead was at his throat. The Wyldermen spread quickly through the guard room, the long reach of their weapons forcing the cramped Lionguard back. The captain made a brief stand, striking out with his longsword, knocking the first spears to one side before one shaft found its way through, striking his breastplate and pushing him back. His knees buckled as the weapon made him tumble, not breaking through his armour, but strong enough to drive him to the floor. The Wylderman held him there, poised to run him through as the other wild men overpowered the Redcloaks, snatching their weapons from them. The one atop the captain snarled, his razor-sharp teeth bared.
The Wyldermen wore different kinds of battle paints and outfits: blue woad, white skulls, red feathers, black clay. Some wore animal skins while others were barely dressed at all. This wasn’t one tribe, the captain realized, as the leader of the wild men finally entered the room, his companions standing to one side; these represented clans from across the Woodland Realm.
The leader of the warriors was tall, his long black hair plastered against his lean, weather-beaten face. He carried a wickedly serrated knife in each hand, the grey flint gleaming as he kept his dark eyes fixed on the captain. He crouched down beside the Redcloak officer, the young man wincing as the s
pearman who pinned him applied more pressure.
‘What do you want?’ the captain gasped, his voice breaking with fear.
‘You are the Lion’s men, no?’ asked the Wylderman leader, his command of western speech remarkable. The Redcloak nodded, tears streaking his cheeks. ‘You fight the Wolf, then?’ the wild man went on, the officer nodding again. ‘As do we.’
‘That’s good then, isn’t it?’ squealed the captain, his eyes flitting between the Wyldermen, his men moaning all around him. None of the warriors relinquished the grip on their weapons, still holding the Lionguard at spear, axe and knife-point. ‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘I would stop at nothing to see the Wolf killed,’ said the warrior, baring his terrible teeth. ‘Not even death. What lengths would you go to to see the Wolf slaughtered, you soft-fleshed town dweller?’
The Redcloak captain licked his lips, words failing him as the Wylderman glared down.
‘I am a shaman, as my father was before me, and my blood burns with the old Wyrm magicks. My mistress may be dead, but her fight is not yet done. My name is Darkheart; take me to your chieftain.’
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Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 34