Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  Twisting the latch gently he flipped open the lid. He sighed when he saw that the contents were still there. He traced his hands over the documents, his fingers lingering over the black candles. Hector patted the pouch of brimstone. He’d made a promise to Bergan and the Wolf’s Council, one he intended to keep, but he wasn’t ready to let go of the box just yet. Hector snapped the lid shut, replacing it in the base of the cupboard. He patted the board back into place, backing away and closing the door again.

  It was going to be a busy day.

  By late afternoon both the hall and kitchen were clean, emptied of the detritus that Vincent’s entertaining had left behind. Hector lit a bonfire in the courtyard, burning the rubbish as he went. The dog had put up more of a fight than he’d expected, eventually being chased off by the irate Boarlord with a broom. He’d soon returned, his insolence broken, and now followed the Lord of Redmire around like a faithful retainer.

  The hall restored to its former beauty, Hector’s next task had been to clean out his own rooms. The soiled bedsheets had ended up on the bonfire with the rest of the refuse, as he’d systematically worked through his bed chamber and bathroom, removing all signs of Vincent and his cronies.

  Left to his own devices, Hector reflected upon the last week. The small dog proved to be a very capable listener as he busied himself with chores.

  ‘I know Vincent will make a move for the title, but will he really hurt me if he doesn’t get his way? We rarely see eye to eye, but I can’t imagine him physically harming me.’

  Hector rubbed his head where he’d split it on the fireplace. The little dog cocked its head.

  ‘Perhaps this was my mistake. I’ve always been clumsy. Maybe I misunderstood Vincent that night,’ reasoned Hector.

  ‘Of course Vincent wants the throne, but he’ll only push things so far. This has been a foolish mistake on both our parts. There’s nothing the sons of Baron Huth can’t resolve when we put our heads together.’

  He was grateful that Mikkel had taken him in. The last thing he remembered that night was fleeing from Bevan Tower, fever raging and head spinning. The next thing he recalled was waking up in Buck House. He was later told that he’d been found wandering the streets by the City Watch. Hector had never blacked out before, and the episode caused him great alarm.

  The dog followed Hector as he finished sweeping the doorstep of Bevan’s Tower, dispersing the dust clouds into the garden. The hound stayed clear, remembering its previous encounter with the broom.

  ‘Brenn only knows why Vincent’s taken those rogues Ringlin and Ibal into service. If I can just get Vincent alone for a moment I’m sure I can set things straight. He may not agree, but he’ll always listen. This day’s work has really blown the cobwebs away. I’m beginning to feel like my old self again!’

  A passing cloud caused gloom to descend over the garden. Hector watched as the shade lifted again, the sun’s rays returning. He shivered as sharp shadows appeared. Hector returned indoors, the dog following.

  His week in Buck House hadn’t been spent entirely in bed. Hector had been able to browse through the library of the late Magister Kohl. Hector reached his left hand out to the dog. It sniffed at his gloved hand, staying away. Keeping it there Hector tugged the right glove off with his teeth, holding the bare hand out alongside the other. The dog moved to it straight away, licking his palm. Hector smiled, ruffling its fur. He slowly stopped stroking the dog as his thoughts returned to the shadows.

  ‘Viles. That’s what the phantoms are known as, so the books of Magister Kohl say. They’re spirits of wicked men who refused to move on, trapped between worlds, latching on to sources of magick among the living. Necromancers are, understandably, an attractive host for a vile to haunt, being as close to the dead as a soul could be. A practitioner of the dark arts, a competent one, might never encounter a vile. I, however, am not competent …’

  Hector could trace his predicament back to his encounter with the dead shaman – the minute he’d messed up the ritual he’d left himself open to attack. He was a marked man to the dead. The dog let out a low growl, as if mention of viles struck a chord.

  ‘Knowing what the entities are removes some of the fear. I’m looking for them now, trying to decipher who the spirits were in life. They still chatter and giggle in the dark, but their torment isn’t as great as it was. Having a name for them’s half the battle: knowledge is power, and I’m determined to learn more.’

  The little mongrel growled, baring its teeth nervously. Hector’s hand wavered over its head.

  ‘Steady, mutt. You’ve nothing to fear.’

  ‘Hasn’t he?’

  Hector looked back to the front doors where Vincent stood, flanked by his lackeys. He was silhouetted by the daylight behind, all three faces shrouded in darkness. Hector struggled to his feet. The little dog kept its belly low, hiding behind him. Hector was determined this conversation would go better than their last.

  ‘It’s so good to see you, Vincent. I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been there?’

  Vincent unfastened his cape, tossing it over the banister at the bottom of the staircase. It tumbled untidily to the floor.

  ‘Long enough to hear your confession to that cur.’

  Vincent’s voice was disapproving. Hector strode up, arms open. He couldn’t have heard him, surely?

  ‘Confession? I don’t follow, brother.’

  Vincent backed away as Hector tried to embrace him, leaving the magister grasping at air. His stomach lurched as he watched Vincent manoeuvre past him. Red wine stains marked his jerkin, red eyes telling their tale of his excesses.

  ‘Enitities? Spirits? Monsters in shadows?’ Vincent said, his voice laced with horror. ‘Dear Brenn, Hector; what have you become?’

  ‘I … but …’ Hector stammered, unable to explain quickly enough. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘What on earth would Bergan say if he knew you practised the dark arts?’ his brother scoffed. Ibal grinned manically while Ringlin sneered.

  Hector shifted nervously, disappointed at how swiftly the exchange had deteriorated. He eyed the henchmen warily, the small dog trembling against his boots. He had to keep Bergan out of this, the Bearlord’s complicity was serious business. Hector felt the traitorous colour rise in his cheeks, telling Vincent all he needed to know.

  ‘He already knows, doesn’t he?’ exclaimed his brother. ‘And yet still keeps you close? How embarrassing for this Wolf’s Council!’ He turned to his companions for support. ‘Surely the people wouldn’t want a necromancer working in their own government?’

  ‘I’d be horrified at the prospect, sire,’ said Ringlin quietly, never taking his narrow eyes off Hector. His fat friend giggled in agreement.

  ‘Please, Vincent,’ said Hector, following his twin into the hall. ‘Nobody else need know of my mistakes.’

  ‘Ah, but Hector, these things have a habit of getting out! Father would be so disappointed in you; sullying the good name of Redmire.’

  ‘Show mercy,’ implored Hector. ‘I’ve been unwell, and whatever mistakes I’ve made were made with the best intentions. Thanks to my communing we know where Gretchen is. That’s where Drew is, right now – on her trail, trying to rescue her from Lucas and Vankaskan.’

  Vincent staggered into the table as if struck by a heavy blow.

  ‘What news!’ he gasped dramatically, his face a show of distress. ‘Our future king? Beyond the walls of the city? Missing?’

  Hector felt nauseous. He’d said too much; he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. But how else could he secure his brother’s compliance other than by telling him the truth? Judging by Vincent’s histrionics, his compliance didn’t seem likely.

  ‘Necromancy used by the council? The Lion and the Rat behind the abduction? Deception about the whereabouts of the Wolf? The people need to know! What a shambles! Oh, this is too much!’

  ‘Some restraint, Vincent, I beg of you!’

  ‘You beg of me?’ sh
outed the younger twin, advancing quickly on his brother. His little performance of concerned citizen was gone in an instant. He was back on form; hard, focused, self-centred. Hot spittle hit Hector’s face.

  ‘You’re a disgrace! A spineless mess and a sorry excuse for a Werelord. Drew, Gretchen, Lucas, the actions of the Wolf’s Council – this stuff is incendiary, Hector. Can you imagine what chaos this information would cause in Highcliff, throughout Westland? There’d be rebellion! The people wouldn’t stand for that old fool Bergan running things under the pretence of the Wolf. Lord Protector! The old Bear can’t even protect that shepherd friend of yours who plays at being regal!’

  ‘Please,’ sobbed Hector. ‘You have to realize what we battle against. The Lions are behind this business, all of it. You know what monsters they are – they ordered our father’s death! Bergan can hardly be charged with failure when Drew shows such determination to go after Gretchen. She’s like a sister to us. Can you not see that?’

  Vincent took hold of Hector, pinning him against the wall as he spoke quietly.

  ‘I can forgive all of this, Hector.’ He smiled, his face suddenly that of a loving brother. Tears rolled down Hector’s face as he nodded eagerly.

  ‘Renounce your claim,’ said Vincent.

  Hector’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide.

  ‘But …’

  ‘No buts. Renounce your claim, and this information won’t leave the room.’

  Hector looked past his brother to the two rogues.

  ‘What about those two?’

  ‘They are members of the Boarguard,’ said Vincent, straightening his brother’s clothes and patting him. ‘Honest and loyal, the pair of them; I vouch for their silence.’

  Hector doubted it, but he was in no position to argue. He cursed himself for having told Vincent the business of the Wolf’s Council.

  ‘Give me some time to step down without losing face, Vincent.’

  ‘I don’t have time, and neither do you. Count yourself lucky I don’t go to a street corner and announce all this news to the people right now! No, time is not a friend to either of us. I expect you to stand down immediately, and with that you buy my silence.’

  ‘But I’ll willingly step down, Vincent. Please, just give me a month to sort out my affairs.’

  ‘I’ll give you a week. After that I start talking. Let the people decide whether you and your friends are fit to govern. Seven days and seven nights, Hector. After that? No more sleeps …’

  Vincent’s smile was cruel and self-satisfied. Hector dared not breathe, waiting for his brother to move. But he just stood there, blocking any means of escape.

  A sudden knocking at the front door caused them all to turn.

  ‘Hector, I would talk with you about bad omens – sailors are such a superstitious bunch!’

  ‘Come in!’ shouted Hector. Vincent sneered as the door opened. It was Count Vega.

  ‘A few sage words from a magister would put them …’ The sea marshal’s voice trailed off as he entered the room. He looked quickly between the four men, recognizing the threat. Instinctively his sword arm shrugged his cape clear of his weapon. Vincent immediately took a step back. Vega settled his gaze on Ringlin.

  ‘Everything all right, Hector?’

  ‘Ringlin. Ibal. Come – let’s drink, dine and make merry,’ said Vincent, swaggering off towards the kitchens. ‘Let’s toast my health, the future Baron of Redmire!’

  The men followed Vincent, the fat one clapping his stumpy hands as he went, the tall one glaring at Vega as he strode by. Hector slid down the wall to the floor, the small dog jumping into his lap, their miserable friendship sealed.

  ‘What in sweet Sosha’s name was all that about?’ asked Vega, crouching down beside the young magister.

  ‘Brenn help me, Vega,’ Hector whispered. ‘What have I done?’

  3

  The Wound That Would Not Heal

  ‘That’s Haggard, then?’ asked Drew, looking across the Longridings towards the distant walled city. The sun hung low in the west as it slowly descended from the heavens. Whitley was squinting and struggling to see the city. Drew took for granted his own heightened senses, as well as the training he’d received at the hands of Mack Ferran. His role as a shepherd had often depended upon seeing: the land, the animals, the horizon.

  ‘You see it?’ she said.

  Drew nodded slowly.

  ‘City of the Ram?’ he replied.

  ‘You were paying attention after all.’

  Drew looked back the way they’d come, half expecting to see Duke Bergan charging into view at any moment. He was amazed they’d got this far without the Wolf’s Council tracking them down. It was only a matter of time before the council caught them; Hector had never intended to keep their route secret.

  He looked at Whitley with concern. She slumped in Chancer’s saddle, somewhere between the waking world and the dead. Her skin had a sickly pallor, red rings circling her bloodshot eyes as she struggled to keep them open. Her therian healing had meant the difference between life and death for the young scout, the wound at her neck having become infected all too swiftly. If she’d been human, she would have been dead by now.

  The attack by the dead Lionguard felt more like a year ago to Drew as opposed to a few days. The burden of protecting his sick friend while staying on Gretchen’s trail weighed heavy on his shoulders. Whitley’s injury showed no sign of recovery, and the bite festered. All Drew could do was keep it clean; a cure was beyond him.

  ‘Drew,’ said Whitley, drinking heavily from her waterskin as she slouched on Chancer behind him. ‘We shouldn’t be going there. We need to go south. Cape Gala’s where they’ve headed with Gretchen.’

  ‘You won’t make it to Cape Gala. That wound needs looking at by someone who knows what they’re doing. You said so yourself; Baron Ewan will help.’

  The two of them had stopped in Cheaptown a few nights earlier. They’d quickly discovered that Lucas’s party had been through a couple of days previously. Ten or so men, they’d numbered, or so Drew and Whitley were told. Cheaptown’s healer had tended Whitley’s injury, but he lacked the medicines to cure her. He agreed with Whitley’s suggestion – Ewan of Haggard would help. An old magister, there was little the Ramlord didn’t know about medicine. Werelords and humans alike had heard tell of his skilled magistery.

  ‘We don’t have time,’ insisted Whitley, wavering in her saddle. Drew steadied her. ‘Just leave me here, someone will find me and take me to Haggard, I’m sure.’

  ‘Don’t argue, Whitley. We go to Haggard, City of the Ram.’

  Drew dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and set off once again, leading Chancer along behind.

  It took the remainder of the day to reach Haggard, along a road winding through the rugged foothills. Drew took comfort in knowing that the Lord of Haggard was an old friend of Whitley’s father. It seemed that Bergan’s paw had a long and influential reach. The swifter Ewan could tend to his friend the better – every moment they delayed made Drew fear that Gretchen would be gone across the sea, shipped off to Bast like some spoil of war.

  He would have his moment with Lucas. There would be a reckoning. Drew had considered what he might do whenever he encountered his half-brother again. He’d made an awful promise to their mother. Prince Lucas was unwell, and there was no cure for his sickness. Well, perhaps one, mused Drew grimly. If the moment came, he wasn’t sure he could carry through with the deed. He wanted to give the Lion a chance to redeem himself, but feared it was too late.

  Haggard was a rough, windswept city, perched along the cliffs that staggered into the sea. It was much smaller than Highcliff, covering the same kind of area as Tuckborough, with stocky walls surrounding it. Drew’s father had dealt with men from Haggard in Tuckborough. He’d heard they were honest, straight-talking folk, typical of those who inhabited the Cold Coast and the Longridings. As they were well known for their hospitality, Drew wasn’t surprised when a welcoming party awaited the du
o as they approached the gates.

  ‘Well met,’ called Drew, hailing them as they neared.

  Drew counted six soldiers on the road, spears carried loose in hand. He was surprised to see that they didn’t wear a uniform, unlike those he’d encountered in other cities. These men seemed rougher, more casual than one might expect from a City Watch. The hairs on Drew’s neck began to prickle. Something wasn’t right. Only one bore any insignia, and that was illegible, its paint scratched away on his battered breastplate. Even in the half light of dusk he recognized these men as mercenaries. Two manoeuvred past him towards Chancer, who let out a nervous whinny. Drew twisted, looking back as one reached up to grab Whitley by the thigh, giving her a hard jostle.

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Drew. ‘She’s unwell and needs the help of Baron Ewan.’

  ‘Does she now?’ said one guard, taking hold of Chancer’s reins. He was short and stocky, the only one who looked like a local. His short blond beard was stained red. Wine, thought Drew. What kind of guard drinks while on watch?

  Drew tried to remain calm, but felt his irritation level rise. The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene at the gates, especially as the Ramlord was a friend of Bergan’s.

  ‘Sir,’ he continued politely. ‘My lady is gravely ill – I’m told the baron can help her.’

  ‘You scouts from Brackenholme, then?’ asked one man, a tall, dark-skinned fellow who carried a shortsword on one hip and a coiled whip on the other. A southerner, from overseas; the last kind of soldier one expected to see in a quiet Lyssian city like Haggard.

  Drew smiled nervously, raising a hand to his cloak.

  ‘You recognize the Green of the Woodland Realm, sir?’

  ‘That’s a yes then?’ replied the blond-bearded man behind who now tugged at Chancer’s reins. Whitley slumped to one side, almost falling from her saddle. ‘Whoah! Now then, girlie!’ he laughed, slapping Whitley on the thigh with a fat hand.

  ‘Don’t touch her,’ shouted Drew. The southerner reached for the reins of Drew’s horse, causing Drew to tug them away from his grasp. His horse took a step back in response, hooves clattering the cobbled road. Drew caught sight of Whitley sliding from her saddle into the arms of the bearded man as his friends jeered.