‘On whose order?’ asked Hector, already knowing the answer.
‘The Lord Protector. Take it up with him would be my suggestion.’
Hector was about to challenge the impertinent guard when they were interrupted by a voice from behind.
‘My lord!’
A figure in a hooded green cloak, the same cut as Drew’s, appeared from within the stable block across the road. The staff slung across his back marked him a scout. Drew was grateful his own hood was up because his grin within was wide.
‘Our horses are ready,’ said the young scout, bowing. The guards showed no alarm.
‘Your horses are going nowhere, lad,’ said the guard, smiling. ‘Not without the approval of Duke Bergan.’
‘My apologies,’ said the scout, reaching into his hip satchel. Tugging loose a scroll he handed it to the guard. ‘Duke Bergan’s seal.’
The lanky guard held the scroll to the fire, letting the flames reveal the red wax: the Tree of Brackenholme. There was no mistaking the Bearlord’s personal seal. He grimaced.
‘This is most unorthodox. We’re under special instruction to stop anyone from leaving.’
‘Well,’ said Hector. ‘As you can see our scouts are also under special instruction. They carry a message, direct from the Wolf’s Council, which needs to reach Brackenholme as fast as possible. Stand down.’ The guards behind the soldier began to relax. They weren’t about to push the situation, not if Bergan was involved. The soldier begrudgingly handed the scroll back.
‘Lad,’ said Hector. ‘Fetch your horses.’
Whitley smiled.
‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, and hurried into the stable block. It amused Drew no end that it wasn’t just him who so readily mistook Whitley for a boy. He’d mistaken her as such when they’d first met in the Dyrewood, only discovering a month ago that he was in fact a she. With her hood up and head down, she looked like any other scout of the Woodland Watch, and who would question one that carried the seal of Brackenholme? She emerged from the stables a moment later leading two light horses by their reins. With delight Drew recognized Chancer, the faithful mount of Whitley’s that had helped them so long ago.
‘Good work,’ whispered Drew to Whitley as he checked his gear on his horse. ‘The scroll’s a nice touch.’ She leaned back into him as she straightened her saddle.
‘A perk of Father being Lord Protector; it wasn’t difficult to get to his writing desk. One never knows when an important looking document might be useful.’
‘Why did we pick Hammergate?’ Drew quietly asked.
‘It’s usually quiet. It was used by one of Leopold’s deserters the other week. I wasn’t expecting the guards to be so diligent, that one in particular, impertinent fellow.’
The guards moved the locking timber from its moorings, sliding it to one side. The tall stubborn soldier glowered, refusing to help. The three friends stepped through the gate, leading the horses out of the city. Whitley gave Hector her best manly handshake, trying not to attract further attention. Drew followed, squeezing Hector’s black gloved hand tight.
‘I’ll miss you, Hector,’ he whispered, his voice choked. ‘Bergan’s going to come down on you like a rockfall. Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said quietly, his own words catching in his throat. ‘What harm can I come to within these walls? It’s you two who are facing the dark and dangerous road. Take care of each other. And find Gretchen. Bring her back safely, and bring yourselves back too while you’re at it.’
Drew and Whitley climbed into their saddles, saluting Hector just once. Then they were riding, putting distance between themselves and Highcliff. Drew looked back at his friend as their horses picked up speed. He felt an ache in his heart at the thought of perhaps never seeing Hector again. A moment later the Boarlord was lost from sight, as the walls of the city disappeared into the night and Drew’s attention was drawn to the open road ahead.
1
Breaking the Boar
Hector stood on the tiled floor of the library, hands behind his back. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, letting his eyes wander over the mosaic depicting the settling of Highcliff city. All manner of beasts could be spotted within the picture: wolves, bears, boars, stags. Lions were conspicuously absent. The art was a celebration of all that was great about Westland, commissioned by a long dead warden of Traitors’ House. The old library now acted as a court, with Hector on trial.
‘Well?’ said Duke Bergan. He sat in the middle of a long bench on a raised dais in the room. Count Vega and Earl Mikkel sat on either side of him, with Lord Broghan beside the Werestag.
‘Have you nothing to say?’ added Mikkel. ‘You’ve betrayed the trust of this council and put Drew’s life at risk.’
‘With respect, my lords, Drew can make decisions for himself. If he wants to go after Gretchen, we shouldn’t stand in his way.’
‘He is but a boy, as are you,’ boomed Mikkel. The Staglord, famous for his temper, was behaving true to form.
‘I wasn’t considered a boy when you vouched for my inclusion on the Wolf’s Council, my lord.’
‘What a grand idea that’s proved to be,’ grumbled Mikkel.
Bergan stamped his foot. The council was silenced, turning to the Lord Protector. He looked hard at Hector from beneath his bushy eyebrows, his temper in check, unlike that of the Staglord.
‘When you took the role of magister to the Wolf’s Council, Hector, you became part of a select group of Werelords who were sworn to protect Drew and the future of Lyssia.’
Hector opened his mouth, but Bergan raised a hand to silence him.
‘By helping Drew leave the city, in the manner you did – scheming and betraying your oath – you’ve jeopardized all that we work towards. Furthermore, you’ve let my only daughter join him on his mad quest. Do you know what they’re up against if they catch up with the Rat? You worked for Vankaskan – you know what he’s capable of! What might he do to Gretchen if Drew gets to him before we do?’
Hector knew Vankaskan all too well. A sadist who delighted in torturing others, he was a monster for sure, but he wasn’t pulling the strings.
‘Vankaskan won’t harm Gretchen,’ said Hector. ‘I promise you.’
Mikkel began to object, but another raised hand from Bergan brought silence.
‘What possible assurance can you give?’
‘Because Prince Lucas still commands him. It’s Lucas who’s behind this abduction and it’s Lucas who flees to Bast.’
Bergan’s eyes widened as Mikkel leaned forward in his seat, spit flying from his mouth as he shouted. ‘How in Brenn’s name could you know that? What would you know about the whereabouts of Lucas? Vankaskan acts alone and heads to Vermire as I’ve said all along!’
‘Whoever is behind this, east is the way they’ve gone, I guarantee it,’ said Broghan. ‘Father, let me take Harker and six of our best branches. The Great West Road – fast and straight, that’s how he travels. I must go immediately if I’m to catch him.’
Bergan ignored the others, while Vega kept his own counsel, silently stroking his chin. The Bear and the Shark looked to one another. Were they thinking the same thing? wondered Hector. Finally Bergan spoke.
‘How is it you can make such a statement, Hector? How can you know, beyond doubt, who is behind the kidnapping of Gretchen and where he intends to take her?’
Hector’s gaze fell to the floor again, his cheeks hot, the telltale blush of shame creeping across his face.
‘Answer him, lad,’ said Mikkel.
Hector’s stomach knotted. He’d known it would come to this all along. He glanced up to see Bergan staring at him. The Bearlord nodded. He knows about the communing! Hector cursed himself; they’d been in such a hurry to escape the scene of horror in the Pits that they hadn’t tidied their mess up. He’d left the corpse, the markings from the ritual; only the Wolf’s Council had access to that part of Traitors’ House. He’d been caught red-handed. Or is that black-handed? he asked himsel
f. Hector’s mouth was dry, and he could feel nausea coming on in a great dark wave as he answered.
‘Questions.’
‘What?’ asked Mikkel.
‘Questions,’ replied Hector, again.
Mikkel turned to the others, confusion racing across his face.
‘Is he mocking us?’
‘He doesn’t mock us,’ said the old Bearlord, dropping his head and shaking it sadly. ‘He’s answered us.’
‘He’s been asking questions,’ added Vega, finally joining the debate. ‘Haven’t you Hector? And this isn’t the first occasion is it?’
Mikkel looked no wiser.
‘I don’t follow,’ said the Staglord gruffly, anger rising in his voice. ‘What does he mean?’
The Bearlord looked up at Hector, his face full of thunder.
‘It appears our magister has been communing.’
Broghan and Mikkel gasped in unison.
‘That’s outlawed!’ cried Broghan.
‘Witchcraft is what it is!’ snapped Mikkel. ‘Kohl practised magicks for sixty years, healing cantrips, blessings and such. I can’t recall a single occasion when he tampered with the dark arts.’
‘Hector, what were you thinking?’ asked Broghan, trying to catch his gaze, but instead the Boar kept his eyes on the ground, fighting back tears.
‘Your father would be ashamed of you,’ said Mikkel. ‘As are we all.’
‘I’m not ashamed of him,’ said Vega, rising and stretching.
‘Stay seated,’ said Broghan to the sea marshal.
‘I don’t think I shall, young cub,’ said Vega. ‘My back aches from sitting on that bench and I can no longer feel my buttocks, the poor things.’ He rubbed his rump, smacking life back into it.
‘Remember where you are!’ shouted Broghan.
‘Oh please,’ said Vega, exasperated. ‘We sit in a musty library berating a boy whose only crime is helping a friend.’
Hector chanced a look up, while Vega took the focus away from him. Broghan was snarling, while Mikkel put a calming hand upon his shoulder. Only Bergan still stared at him, eyes twinkling, face in shadow. The Bearlord rose from the bench, all order gone. He slowly walked to Hector. The others fell silent behind him.
Hector dropped his head as Bergan approached, only for the the Bearlord to take his chin between thumb and forefinger and raise his face up. Bergan was a giant, literally a bear of a man. His huge red beard didn’t hide his face; it made it bigger – broad nose, ruddy skin, dark brown eyes and heavy brow. The hand that held Hector’s jaw could probably fit easily round his head, and was just as likely to crush it in an instant.
‘Hector,’ he whispered. ‘It was the corpse they brought out of the sewer, wasn’t it? Brutus?’
Hector nodded.
‘Is this the first time?’
He considered lying, but with the Bearlord staring at him with those big, fierce eyes he felt compelled to tell the truth. Hector shook his head sadly. Bergan continued.
‘In times of old, the magisters who practised communing were executed, considered corrupt in mind and spirit. Burned, beheaded, stoned, drowned …’
Bergan leaned in close, whispering into Hector’s ear.
‘I heard of one magister, a Horselord I believe. They poured molten silver into his mouth. Can you imagine?’
Hector thought he might vomit. His head swam and his legs felt unsteady. Bergan took a firmer hold of his jaw.
‘Steady, Hector. Don’t be falling down now.’
‘My Lord,’ said Hector, his face streaked with tears. ‘I’ve only ever communed to help our cause. When my friends are endangered I do what I can to help. I’ve never communed for selfish reasons, I swear!’
‘I’ve always thought of you as family, Hector. Your father was like a brother, and I’ve watched you grow up from being a young Boar to a true Werelord. Until today I imagined Huth was proud of what you’ve become. But this? You’ve done something incredibly foolish.’
‘You’re too hard on him,’ interrupted Vega. ‘He communed. So what? It was with good intentions. If he hadn’t we wouldn’t know that Lucas was behind this fiasco and fleeing south to Bast as we speak. We should thank him!’
Bergan didn’t turn to the captain of the Maelstrom, keeping his eyes on Hector instead.
‘He has taken a great risk in doing this, Vega. Communing, the dark arts of magick – they’re like a drug, I’m told, addictive at that. No cause is reason enough to speak with the dead. A line has been crossed, and I fear it cannot be uncrossed.’
‘You speak in riddles,’ sighed Vega, striding down the dais to join Bergan. ‘Let the boy be. He’s learned his lesson.’
Bergan let go of Hector and stepped back.
‘You’ve left us with no option. I say this with regret.’
Duke Bergan held his hand out.
‘The amulet, Hector. Hand it over.’
Hector looked at Bergan, his eyes wide with astonishment. His gloved hand closed round the medallion that marked him as one of Drew’s most trusted, a fellow of the Wolf’s Council.
‘Please,’ he implored. ‘Not that. I’m so sorry, but don’t take the amulet. I can do better, you have my word!’
‘We had your word before, lad,’ said Mikkel, his eyes narrowed.
‘I’ll give it again,’ said Hector. ‘I can make this right!’
Bergan’s face was hard, his decision made.
‘Your word means little now, I’m afraid.’ His open hand twitched, fingers beckoning. ‘You can still have a role here, Hector. There’s important work that needs doing for the Wolf’s Council. But some of our business will be behind closed doors, and you won’t be present, son.’
‘Show us you can be trusted again and you can take your place once more,’ added Mikkel.
‘I promise you,’ said Bergan, nodding in agreement. ‘The amulet can be yours again. But you must prove your loyalty to us.’
Hector lifted the chain of office from round his neck. He held it for the briefest moment, taking one last look at the medallion, before dropping it into Bergan’s palm. Bergan turned and walked back up the steps to retake his seat. He looked down to Vega who still stood beside the shamed Boarlord on the mosaic.
‘Are you rejoining us, Sea Marshal Vega?’
The count snatched up his cape and cutlass from where he’d draped them over a bookcase.
‘I have more pressing business in the harbour. I believe there are two drunks arguing over the ownership of a broken lobster basket.’ He didn’t look back as he stormed out of the door. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’
Mikkel glowered as Broghan pointed after the Wereshark.
‘Vega’s a liability,’ said the young Bearlord. ‘He shows a constant lack of respect for this council.’
‘I thought he’d have tired of playing government by now,’ said Mikkel. ‘This must be the longest the Shark has stuck to anything in his life. I’m almost worried about him!’
Mikkel and Broghan laughed, unaware of Bergan’s quiet mood. The Bearlord still stared at Hector, who looked back, a broken man. Hector didn’t particularly care what Mikkel and Broghan thought of him. The Stag’s temper often got him into trouble, while the young Bear was a good but naive man in Hector’s eyes, desperate for his father’s approval.
But Hector could remember childhood summers in the company of Bergan and Lady Rainier. He and his brother had grown up alongside Whitley, treated by Bergan as his own. He saw how disappointed the duke was, and it broke his heart.
‘Have you noticed any … ill effects, since this communing, Hector?’ asked Bergan.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mikkel.
‘I remember Baron Huth mentioning it years ago,’ explained the Bearlord, watching Hector all the while. ‘Once a magister taps through to the other side, he can leave himself open to … forces. Perhaps we’ve nipped this in the bud quickly enough, Hector. Nothing ails you, does it?’
Hector shook his head. He could have mentioned the darkne
ss in the Pits, but figured he’d had enough trouble for one day.
‘Nothing ails me, my lord,’ lied Hector.
‘You may leave then,’ said Bergan warmly, though his smile looked hollow to Hector.
Bergan continued. ‘Might I suggest you take the rest of the day for yourself? Fresh air will clear your head.’
Hector nodded and walked to the door. They didn’t wait for him to leave, getting back to the business of Drew immediately.
‘Father,’ said Broghan. ‘Let me take those six branches as I said. Harker can have them ready to ride within the hour. If we leave now we may catch them on the road south.’
‘It’s a fine idea,’ agreed Mikkel. He coughed sharply and suddenly and the Boarlord glanced back at them. The Staglord was looking his way. Did they think he was eavesdropping?
‘Tomorrow, Hector,’ said Bergan. ‘I’ll see you then. Go now.’
Head bowed, the shamed Lord of Redmire left the room.
He trudged down the staircase, each step jarring. As he passed guards he felt their eyes upon him, judging him. He heard them whispering, sensed them pointing. He’d never felt so miserable in his life. His dark mood seemed to radiate outwards, gloom descending everywhere he looked: shadows and darkness.
The darkness – if he’d mentioned that to Bergan they wouldn’t have let him leave the room. They’d probably have him put under armed guard, for his own safety. Deep in the Pits, questioning the corpse of Captain Brutus, he’d seen them. Out of the darkness they had appeared, shadows taking on an apparently solid form, black gaseous shapes with teeth and talons. The dead soldier’s spirit had drawn their attention, and they’d feasted on him, killing him again. To die once horrifically was unthinkable, but twice?
Some had ignored the corpse, lured to the power Hector channelled. They’d circled like a pack of dogs, searching for a weak point to attack. He’d felt blind terror, his heart seizing up, waiting for them to strike. Then Drew had slapped him, brought him round. He’d killed the ritual and the shadows had vanished.
Only now, even in daylight, by firelight, wherever there were shadows, he saw the beasts in the corner of his eye. He’d turn his head, but they’d be gone, tricks of the light. Just thinking about the shadows brought a pain behind his eyes, like knives to his mind. His left hand balled into a trembling fist as he fought fresh tears. No, he thought. Don’t let them see you cry. He turned his fist over and slowly unfurled it.
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