Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  Hector looked over his shoulder at Drew with an expression that said what do I tell it? Drew shrugged, shaking his head.

  ‘Ask about Gretchen and Vankaskan!’

  Hector turned back and cleared his throat.

  ‘Your master – where did he take our friend?’

  The corpse of Brutus didn’t answer, still glancing about frightened, the sheet rustling. Hector raised his voice.

  ‘Lady Gretchen! Your master took her: what plans did he make?’

  The dead captain snapped back to attention at his shout.

  ‘The woman. We took her. Never told us plans. Never asked. Just obeyed.’

  Hector shook his head, annoyance rising.

  ‘Where was he heading?’

  ‘South,’ said the corpse. ‘We were heading south.’

  So south it was, thought Drew. What was south of Highcliff but the Longridings, land of the Horselords? Did the rat have allies there?

  ‘Where, exactly?’ asked Drew.

  Hector took up the question. ‘Why is the south so important to Vankaskan, your master?’

  The corpse gurgled a low laugh, the ribcage in its open chest grating.

  ‘Why do you laugh?’ asked Hector. It ignored him, its shoulders now rocking as it began to lose control. ‘Why do you laugh?’ shouted the Boarlord.

  ‘Vankaskan not my master,’ spluttered the corpse. ‘Prince Lucas my master.’

  Hector turned to Drew, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern. Neither youth had even considered whether Lucas was behind the abduction – it appeared to be the handiwork of the Ratlord, even down to the sewers as a route of escape. Both Drew and Hector knew firsthand how unhinged the prince was. If he’d got his claws back into Gretchen who knew what his intentions were.

  ‘If Lucas is with Vankaskan and has Gretchen …’ began Drew.

  ‘The south,’ continued Hector, his head snapping back to Brutus’s corpse. ‘Where does he head to?’

  ‘Bast,’ hissed the dead body of the captain, its half-eaten tongue licking the once-white sheet. ‘Bast.’

  Hector, Drew and Whitley looked at one another. Bast: the jungle continent to the south of Lyssia. Leopold’s homeland.

  ‘We have to stop him,’ said Drew. ‘If he catches a ship south, we’ll have lost them.’

  ‘We must send word to the towns and ports along the Cold Coast,’ said Whitley. ‘Have them alerted to Lucas and Vankaskan, make sure they can’t charter passage.’

  ‘And Cape Gala?’ asked Hector. ‘We’ve had no word from Cape Gala since Leopold was dethroned. What if he does have allies there? What if Duke Lorimer is a friend to the Lion?’

  Drew looked past Hector and back at the corpse on the table. Hector followed his gaze back to the animated soldier. Brutus’s body seemed to be weaving where it sat, lurching one way and then the other as if evading a series of blows. Its wailing had begun once more.

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ asked Drew. Hector didn’t answer; he was looking left and right around the body, as if anticipating whatever imaginary foes the dead man faced.

  ‘They bite!’ cried the corpse. ‘Teeth so sharp!’ Its hands came up beneath the sheet. Through the dim light Drew could see the silhouette of Brutus’s mangled limbs, fingers and thumbs missing from each hand.

  ‘Hector?’ asked Drew. Again, the Boarlord didn’t answer, his own head flicking about now, around the room, over his own shoulder, behind Drew. His face was pale and his eyes were wide and white.

  ‘Drew …’ said Whitley, her voice thick with terror.

  ‘Hector!’ shouted Drew. He’d seen the chaos of communing before. He had to end this before it went the same way. Drew leapt forward and dropped to his knees beside Hector, whose head flashed about, his mouth slack and gibbering. Brutus’s corpse on the table was shaking now, battered from side to side by an invisible force. Drew could hear a ripping, shredding sound. The corpse was screaming now, dying all over again.

  ‘Hector, make it stop!’ he shouted, shaking him. ‘We have what we need!’ When Hector didn’t respond, Drew slapped him hard across the face. The body was lifting into the air now, appearing to levitate, bouncing against the tabletop. Drew smacked Hector once more.

  ‘Hector!’

  The Boarlord suddenly snapped to, his eyes blinking back into focus.

  ‘Yes,’ he babbled. ‘Make it stop. Make it stop.’ He opened his left palm, black with the liquid wax that remained hot against his flesh. He held it up at Brutus’s corpse as it thrashed about, tormented by its invisible attackers.

  ‘Return from whence you came!’ he shouted, and slammed his palm into the ground. Instantly the body stopped its demonic dance, collapsing in a heap of torn flesh and bone on to the table, the sheet slowly fluttering as it settled over it once again.

  The room was quiet, but for Hector’s low sobbing. Drew glanced up at Whitley, then turned and hugged his friend.

  6

  Under Cover of Darkness

  The white stag danced in the breeze, its body rising and falling as it raced across the grey field. The flag of Stormdale flew at half mast above Buck House as the occupants within mourned the loss of one of their lords, and prayed for the recovery of another. The guards at the gatehouse were in a sombre mood after the day’s events. Some had been first on the scene along with the Wolf and the Boarlord. Others had received news of Magister Kohl’s death later in the day when taking their posts. Each of them grieved and each wanted to hunt the killers down, unaware that within the mansion, that very hunt had already begun.

  Drew had kept his bedchamber window open so he could make a swift exit – he didn’t want to wake the house. The bells of Brenn’s temple chimed to mark midnight, an hour as good as any to depart. His balcony provided a view of the harbour and the whole of the Low Quarter, the grand houses of Highcliff’s wealthiest hugging the cliffs all around. The waxing moon was pulling hard tonight – he could feel it in his bones, a dull ache that begged him to take on the beast. Manfred’s lessons stood him in good stead at times like these. The Wolf wasn’t conquered, but Drew felt in control as never before. The opportunity to run on all fours might arise beyond the walls.

  Below, in the courtyard, Hector waited. The Boarlord was Drew’s way out – he was more than aware that Bergan didn’t want him to leave. But the two of them couldn’t do this alone. Drew fastened his cloak about his shoulders, the dark woodland green of Brackenholme an ideal camouflage for the wilderness. Not ideal within Highcliff, but his quarry wasn’t in the city. It was heading south and already had a head start. Picking up his backpack, he slung it over his shoulder before opening the chest at the foot of his bed. It was empty. It was gone.

  ‘Looking for this?’ whispered a voice. Drew jumped up, his eyes searching the shadows. It was Queen Amelie, dressed in a long grey nightrobe, and in her hands she held the Wolfshead blade. Her faced was etched with worry, every line thrown into contrast by the moonlight.

  ‘The sword of Mack Ferran, isn’t it? A good sword wielded by a brave man in the defence of the realm. Wergar’s sword, Moonbrand, disappeared when he died.’

  Her voice was sad as she looked at the sword, thinking of happier times. Drew could think of nothing to say – he hadn’t intended to be discovered making his escape. This threw his plans into chaos. It was probably only a matter of time before she called the guards. Amelie looked up suddenly as if sensing his tension.

  ‘Was that your plan, then? To disappear?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was afraid you’d try to prevent my leaving.’

  ‘Is that what troubles you?’ asked Amelie, stepping closer. ‘That I might raise the alarm?’

  ‘Will you not?’ asked Drew, his voice cracking with emotion.

  She handed the sword across to him by the scabbard, the hilt within reaching distance.

  ‘Take the blade, Drew. Find Gretchen. Stop this evil.’

  He didn’t take it, unsure whether she was testing him. Amelie’s mood could chan
ge quickly. Fifteen years in mourning, being medicated by Leopold, had left her a fragile woman.

  ‘But, Mother,’ he whispered, the word still odd to his lips. ‘What if the evil is being carried out by … your other son?’

  He couldn’t hide the truth: he and Lucas were brothers, sons of the same mother. Utterly different, but inextricably connected to the heart of Queen Amelie. If the two came to blows – and chasing after Gretchen might lead to that – that could lead to the death of one of them.

  ‘Lucas was always troubled. A priest of Brenn warned us that his birth was surrounded by dark omens, and Leopold had the priest killed. Lucas was always kind to me, but others? I witnessed my son beating his tutors as a child, having servants flogged. There is too much of his father in him. I love him, Drew – nothing can change that. But I know he has done wicked things. If you can pull him back from the brink, then I beg you to try to do that, for my sake. But if his soul is so damaged, so irretrievable …’

  She couldn’t finish the sentence, the sword and scabbard beginning to shake in her grasp. Drew took the handle, taking the weight, and sword, from her hands. He stepped close and embraced her, allowing her to cry. He spoke quietly, his words chosen carefully.

  ‘You have my word, Mother, that if need be I’ll stop his torment.’ He kissed her gently on the forehead.

  ‘You know why I have to do this, don’t you?’ he went on. ‘I can’t trust someone else to fight my fight.’

  She brushed her hand across his face.

  ‘Oh, Drew. You’re more like your father than you’ll ever know. But his world was black and white, full of only friends or enemies. You see all the shades of grey.’

  Drew looked to the balcony and back to the queen.

  ‘I’m sorry to put you in the middle of this, Mother, but I must go. Time is against us.’

  ‘One more thing, Drew,’ she said, reaching into her robe, pulling a white metal signet ring from her pocket and handing it to him. ‘It was my wedding gift to Wergar, and now it’s my gift to you.’

  The ring bore the image of an enraged wolf, teeth bared and ready for battle. Amelie smiled as Drew traced his fingertip along the metal, lingering over the details.

  ‘I had Duke Henrik of Icegarden set his greatest smiths to work on it, and they didn’t let me down. It was blessed by the elders of Shadowhaven. Wergar never took it off.’

  ‘It’s incredible,’ said Drew, slotting it on to the middle finger of his left hand. ‘It fits perfectly.’

  ‘The metal was enchanted deep within the Strakenberg, Henrik told me. It will change when you change, Drew, growing and shrinking as you shift.’

  The queen was more animated than Drew had ever seen her before, speaking wistfully about the past.

  ‘There are no greater metalsmiths in Lyssia than those you’ll find beneath the Whitepeaks,’ she continued. ‘The Sturmish guard their secrets well. Henrik’s father, Ragnor, charged into battle wearing an enchanted gauntlet, fashioned into a bear’s paw. The White Fist of Icegarden they called him. There was a time when all the ancient Werelords carried Sturmish artefacts on to the battlefield. Take this ring, and keep it close.’

  Drew regarded Wergar’s ring before dropping to one knee, bowing his head before the queen. She stepped forward and pulled him to his feet, hugging him once.

  ‘Go now, quickly.’

  Drew ran to the balcony, took hold of the climbing vines and disappeared over the edge. Hector watched nervously, glancing toward the gatehouse. Drew dropped gracefully to the dusty ground.

  ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Goodbyes,’ said Drew, pulling his friend toward the gates. As they neared, the captain of the guard came out to meet them.

  ‘My lords,’ he said. ‘I have guards prepared to escort you to Traitors’ House. They wait in the barracks – let me fetch them.’

  This wasn’t what they’d planned. Hector had told the gate guards that Drew was needed for an emergency meeting of the Wolf’s Council. Any other reason for removing the heir to the throne in the dead of night would have met with disapproval. The guards were under strict instruction to keep an eye on Drew – Hector had even signed the orders. The two had hoped to depart alone. Guards would draw attention and, more importantly, they weren’t heading to Traitors’ House.

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ said Hector. ‘Lord Drew and I can make our way to Traitors’ House alone.’

  ‘May I speak freely?’ asked the captain, anxiously. He was a heavy set man, with a mop of red hair tumbling over his brow. He looked like a seasoned campaigner, and a very capable warrior.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘With respect, my lord, Duke Manfred left with the same destination earlier today and we know what happened to him. It would be remiss of me to let you leave without my men-at-arms.’

  Hector prickled, struggling to reply to the captain’s logical response. A lapse in duty had led to tragedy and the last thing the guards needed was more bloodshed. Drew decided to step in and pull rank.

  ‘Captain Graves, isn’t it?’ Drew said. Graves nodded, clearly pleased that the future king remembered his name.

  ‘Your offer is generous,’ said Drew. ‘But I can assure you that your men aren’t needed. The people responsible for the attack earlier today have already fled. They’re beyond the walls and every minute we’re delayed they move further from our grasp. Thank you, captain, but keep your men here and guard Queen Amelie.’

  Drew started to walk past, but Graves wasn’t giving up. He lifted a hand before him, Drew’s chest bumping into it.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I cannot let you leave alone. By order of the Wolf’s Council.’

  Drew was impressed by the man. Ordinarily it would be good to know that Graves was a stickler for detail, especially with his mother in residence and Manfred recovering. But now the man’s stubborn sense of duty was proving a huge hurdle. He hated himself for what came next, but they had to pass.

  ‘The Wolf’s Council serves me, captain,’ he snapped. ‘Stand aside.’

  ‘Word from the Lord Protector himself,’ said Graves, straightening his back. ‘You’re a flight risk, my lord. The Wolf’s Council fears you’ll attempt to depart Highcliff.’ He looked past Drew, standing to attention like a good soldier.

  Good old Bergan, thought Drew, as Hector reached inside his collar and pulled out a disc on a chain. The wolf medallion glinted in the moonlight. The soldier glanced at it.

  ‘You recognize the amulet, captain?’ Hector said coldly. ‘Good. I am the Wolf’s Council. Now stand aside and we’ll see you upon our return.’

  The guard didn’t move immediately. His eyes kept settling upon the medallion. Gradually his nerve buckled and he stood to one side.

  ‘Apologies, my lords,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘Guards: the gate!’

  Drew glowered at Graves as he passed, although he wanted to commend him for standing up to them. With a man like Graves in charge of Buck House and the safety of his mother, Drew would rest easy. The gates swung open and the two Werelords paced on to the cobbles of Lofty Lane.

  Once they were out of earshot, Drew spoke to Hector.

  ‘When I’m gone, you make sure Graves isn’t punished. Better still, award him a medal.’

  The walk to the Tall Quarter took almost an hour. At every junction they inevitably met the City Watch. Werelords or not, the curfew stood, and on half a dozen occasions they found themselves facing guards with halberds lowered. Each time Hector stepped forward to answer their questions. As a member of the Wolf’s Council he could move freely around the city. He also knew that Bergan’s order to prevent Drew from leaving the city meant he’d be stopped if recognized. Drew travelled with his hood up and face obscured, looking like a regular soldier of Brackenholme.

  The two therians took a wide berth around the army encampment, but couldn’t miss Highcliff Keep as they passed. Ships had been anchored below at the foot of the cliffs, monitoring any movement, while in the city above the army
had placed great braziers along the edge of the moat, letting the fires burn through the night. This kept the walls illuminated until morning, and any attempt to escape would be seen. Somewhere within the keep, Leopold and the remaining four members of the Rat King hid from them, plotting their revenge. Drew shivered at the thought.

  Reaching Pious Road, a broad avenue that ran through the Tall Quarter, the two youths headed south-east, sticking to the shadows and trying to make up time. They should depart without further delay.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’ asked Drew as they passed the stone steps that led to Brenn’s Temple. The old church stood like a looming sarcophagus, its tall doors open as was the tradition of Brenn’s order: ‘A haven to all, his door shall never close’. Drew hoped he’d never have to take him up on that offer.

  ‘Almost,’ huffed Hector. He was still out of shape, the weight he’d lost on their recent perilous adventure having reappeared. Highcliff life could make a man soft.

  They rounded a corner and there it was: Hammergate. Drew’s heart quickened. Hector still strode in front, drawing any attention that came their way. Two torches burned on either side of the gate, lighting Hammergate’s arch. A guardroom was built into the wall to the right, but the duty guards were gathered in the street. The four of them looked their way as the youths turned the corner, readying their halberds.

  ‘Who goes there?’ asked a tall, lanky one, who had a swaggering stride as he stepped forward. The other guards followed him.

  ‘Lord Hector, Magister to the Wolf’s Council,’ replied Hector, striding confidently forward and showing them his medallion. He’d been through this routine before and found the deception got easier. ‘You can stand down.’

  The lanky fellow stepped further forward, his colleagues standing their ground behind.

  ‘We have our orders, Lord Hector,’ said the soldier, leaning on his halberd. He seemed pleased to be correcting a Werelord.

  ‘Nobody’s to leave or enter the city during the curfew. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the morning.’

  Drew clenched his fists beneath his cloak.