5
The Key
Haggard Castle once had a splendid throne room, home to the great and good of the Longridings. Merchants and nobles wined and dined there, keen to earn favour and fortune. The port of Haggard’s Bay provided a harbour for ships from every edge of Lyssia. It was relatively recently that the Horselord city of Cape Gala had replaced Haggard as the capital of the Longridings, and many still considered Haggard the beating heart of the grasslands, carved out of the rock it grew upon. But times had changed.
Now, Count Kesslar’s ‘court’ slept where they fell, littering the floor of the throne room. Bodies slumped around the chamber’s marble pillars. Spent ale casks lay about, the soldiers having done their best to empty the castle’s cellars. A figure slept upon the throne beneath a fur blanket, an ancient grey mastiff dozing at his feet, its dirty muzzle resting on its paws.
Whitley crept silently towards the throne’s stone dais, stepping gingerly between the slumbering guards. She counted twenty, each fearsome looking and armed to the teeth. She’d seen men like these before, rolling through Brackenholme, hitting taverns and causing chaos before they picked up jobs on departing caravans.
Kesslar’s men had underestimated Whitley. Lying in bed, convalescing after Baron Ewan had treated her injury, she was the last person any of them expected to be creeping around the castle in the middle of the night. She’d appeared close to death upon arrival, only attracting the attention of Kesslar once he discovered she had value. The daughter of Duke Bergan was clearly worth a great deal to the Goatlord.
Kindly old Ewan had been the first person she laid eyes upon when she regained consciousness. He’d quickly informed her of the predicament she was in, where Drew was imprisoned and who held the key that kept him locked away. It was all immaterial, Ewan had said – she was too ill to get out of bed, let alone plan a daring escape for her friend. She needed a full night’s sleep, and then they’d face what the new day brought when her energy had returned.
That wasn’t good enough for Whitley.
The Goatlord’s men had made merry until the early hours, drinking and carousing. When the noise subsided, Whitley waited for a further hour before creeping from her bed wearing nothing but the nightdress she’d been given. The guard who had been posted outside her door had departed long ago to join his brothers in their cups. After all, how much guarding did a sickly young girl require?
A sweeping staircase led down directly into the throne room, where Kesslar’s small army of hired swords lay sleeping off their festivities. This was their last night in Haggard, according to Ewan, the Goatlord intending to set sail with his prisoners the following day. Whitley spied the stairwell that led down to the cavern beneath the castle, but that wasn’t where she was heading. Drew would have to wait. She had to pay someone else a visit first.
Whitley was far from recovered, her body still weak as it fought the diseased wound from the dead soldier. The last week had been surreal as she’d slipped in and out of consciousness, battling the bite. Whatever medicines Baron Ewan had used had clearly done the trick, bringing her back from the brink and allowing her Brenn-given Bearlord healing to take effect. She felt a coldness inside, her mind’s eye still recalling the feel of the corpse’s teeth at her neck. She stepped gingerly, channelling Master Hogan’s lessons on stealth and stalking as she paced silently across the throne room.
She was fifteen feet from the dais when she noticed the mastiff stirring. It let out a low growl as it chased something through its dreams. A nearby soldier shifted at the noise, rolling over where he lay. Whitley’s eyes were wide with fear. One of the men directly beside her rolled her way, causing the girl to hop forward, her bare feet landing with a quiet slap on the flags. The dog growled again. A dark-skinned hand fell out from under the blanket, waving down sleepily and swatting the dog’s muzzle, instantly silencing it. Whitley caught sight of the keyring on the captain’s hip, the prize she sought. As the hand moved back Whitley breathed a sigh of relief.
Djogo, Baron Ewan had called him. He was from a remote island in the southern seas, so hot that a man’s blood could boil, the Ramlord said. Kesslar’s rogues had arrived two months ago. Apparently, Djogo’s first act had been to beat Baron Ewan’s head butler to within an inch of his life for simply questioning Kesslar’s commands. That had captured the castle staff’s attention. He was fiercely cruel and the captain of the mercenaries. While Kesslar slept in the lord’s chambers, Djogo slept with his men. He was one of them: a killer.
Confident that Djogo and the mastiff slept, Whitley prepared to take another step. A wave of dizziness washed over her, skin slick with cold, clammy sweat. The nightdress clung to her, restricting movement, causing her anxiety to rise. The fever still had a grip on her. She let her mind focus on the task at hand; Djogo and the keyring. What would Drew do? How would he get the key? Her friend acted on impulse, on instinct. He channelled the Wolf.
Whitley closed her eyes, surrounded by the sleeping soldiers, and once more invited the Bear to join her. Her senses began to heighten, her hearing and vision becoming swiftly acute. Unused to shifting, she stopped short of attempting any further transformation; she needed to remain in control, preserve her energy.
As she stepped closer to the dais, the old mastiff opened its eyes suddenly. It was no longer the human scent the hound picked up; instead, it sensed the presence of the Werebear. She froze five feet away as it stared at her. Was it going to bark? She narrowed her eyes, unblinking, and bared her teeth, staring the mastiff down. Its confidence broken in the face of a more powerful beast, the dog lowered its jaws to its paws with only the slightest whimper. It remained on its belly, fearful, as the intruder approached its master and reached for the keys.
Drew looked up suddenly as he noticed a shadow fluttering down the spiral staircase. The other prisoners also saw it, their fearful eyes watching on. Maybe it was Djogo, returned to inflict more misery on Drew. Let him come, he thought. I don’t need claws to give that monster a fight. He crouched low.
A slim figure emerged from the stairwell and dashed to the bars, feeling along until its hands closed round the door hinges. Drew heard keys jingle as the stranger fumbled with a ring of them, trying one after another. A key went in, the stranger struggling with the mechanism before trying another. This happened repeatedly. Drew noticed that the figure was barefoot, faint torchlight from the stairs catching the pale skin as the girl desperately searched for the right key.
‘Whitley?’
The figure looked up. Drew could now clearly see the outline of the young Werelady in the dark, clad in a pale white nightdress.
‘Drew!’ gasped Whitley, joy ringing in her voice. ‘Give me a moment …’
Inspired, Whitley continued trying keys as Drew rushed up. Those prisoners who had been sleeping began to stir as the excited murmuring of their friends woke them.
‘Where did you get the keys from?’ asked Drew, looking towards the staircase and praying that nobody appeared. She was taking a monumental risk.
‘Djogo.’
‘Djogo?’ said Ewan. ‘How in Brenn’s name did you get them off him, my lady?’
‘I had some help,’ she whispered as a key turned noisily in the lock. Before Drew could press her, Whitley had opened the door and rushed to embrace the young Werewolf. She shivered in his arms, her body still raw as it fought the fever.
‘Thank Brenn you’re safe, Whitley,’ said Drew, hugging her close.
Drew ran his fingers round the collar he wore, feeling for the point where the circle of iron was joined.
‘I don’t suppose we can get these off?’
‘There are smiths in the city, but now isn’t the ideal time to call upon them,’ smiled Ewan grimly.
Dorn rose, towering over Drew and holding out a hand.
‘Drew of the Dyrewood,’ he said. ‘You would do me an honour in allowing me to fight by your side.’
‘It’s you who honours me, Dorn,’ said Drew, his blood racing as adr
enaline flowed.
‘What do you intend to do?’ asked the Bull as they stepped out of the cell.
‘We can rule out shape-shifting,’ he said. ‘That’s unless you were planning on losing your heads.’
‘Fight,’ muttered Ewan, the idea a distant memory. ‘It’s been so long.’
‘The Goat has butchered Haggard,’ said Drew, reminding Ewan of what he’d lost. ‘Your subjects are beyond that staircase.’ He looked to everyone in the room, addressing them all. ‘Each of you has family up there; loved ones, children, parents. You had lives. You had a city. They can be yours again.’
The men and women stirred now. They were beginning to believe. Not all of them would come. Some were injured, others were terrified, and rightly so. He counted around forty who were prepared to fight.
‘Let’s take back our city,’ said Ewan. ‘Take back Haggard.’
The people assembled behind Ewan. They bowed, whispering his name and seeking Brenn’s blessing.
‘What’s the plan?’ he asked Drew.
The young Werewolf took Whitley by the hand.
‘Stay close to me, Whitley,’ he said before turning to the others. ‘Tell me everything you can about the castle, quickly. This’ll be dangerous, but we can hurt the Goatlord. It’s our turn to have surprise on our side.’
Ewan and Dorn nodded enthusiastically as the small but determined crowd gathered outside the jail cell, plotting their attack.
6
The Battle of Haggard
They came like the White Sea breaking against the Cold Coast, flooding the throne room in a swift unstoppable wave. There were no battle roars, no warnings. They moved with a single and deadly purpose. The soldier who lay nearest the stairs was pounced on, hands strangling the life from him. His sword and knife were taken and they were on to the next one. It wasn’t until the fifth soldier managed to cry out that the alarm was finally raised. By then eight of the Haggard men had blades in their hands. Kesslar’s army had been savagely awakened.
Djogo stood on the dais, awake quickly and off the throne. The old mastiff lifted its head, barking out a late warning. Djogo furiously kicked the hound, sending it stumbling down the steps, as he watched his men retreating through the room, chased from the chamber by the farmers and fishermen of Haggard. When he saw that his keyring was gone he strode down the steps, cursing, whipping his newly acquired sword from its scabbard. It would be good to try the blade out – he’d been waiting for an excuse to bloody it.
A man of Haggard was pounding a splintered chair over a soldier’s back. The guard crumpled beneath the blows, his assailant realizing that the fight was his. He never saw the battle through to its end though – a sword emerged from his stomach, driven through from behind. He was dead before he slid from the steel.
‘On your toes, Purney!’ snarled Djogo at the man, looking over the combatants. There weren’t as many of the prisoners as he’d first thought. His men were armed and armoured against a handful of half-starved yokels; why were the idiots cowering? They should be stacking heads on the throne.
He caught sight of five of the prisoners disappearing up the broad stairs at the far end of the hall, the flight that led up to his master’s bedchambers. One of the men was Ewan and he had the scout from Brackenholme with him, plus a girl in a white nightdress. The Bearlord’s daughter? Djogo grinned, grabbing Purney by the neck, pulling him close.
‘Spread word. They’re a handful of wretches, that’s all. You’re not fighting an army; you’re fighting some rats from the cellar. Kill them all.’ He released his grip on the soldier as Purney puffed out his chest with newfound confidence. ‘I’ve got some mutton needs mincing.’
Drew and Whitley were ahead of Baron Ewan and his men as they arrived on the first floor. Drew knew exactly where he was heading, the old Ram having told him where the Goat would be sleeping. He had to move fast – the clamour below would disturb Kesslar soon enough. Drew dashed up to two heavy double doors, snatching at the handles and flinging them open.
His hopes of taking the Goatlord by surprise had come to nothing. Open doors on to the balcony allowed the first light of day into the room, heavy drapes flapping in the cold morning wind. There was no sign of Kesslar in the bedchamber and the room was deserted. Whitley staggered past Drew, collapsing against the bedframe to catch her breath. Still recovering, the exertion of channelling the Bear and freeing Drew had exhausted her.
‘He must be down there, with his men,’ said Drew, cursing his luck.
‘Perhaps he’s made a run for it,’ said Whitley, lurching towards the balcony.
‘Wait!’ shouted Drew, but it was too late.
Emerging from the billowing drapes, Kesslar darted into the bedchamber, snatching Whitley by the throat. He retreated quickly to the balcony. Drew made to follow and the Goatlord squeezed Whitley’s neck, warning the young man to back off. Kesslar looked over the low stone wall as the battle of Haggard spilled on to the courtyard. Dawn’s early light illuminated the Goat’s craggy face as he chortled. He didn’t appear to be concerned by the turn of events – he actually seemed to be enjoying it.
‘Let her go,’ said Drew, as calmly as possible.
The Goatlord’s hunched shoulders gave him an exaggerated and ungainly stoop. His white hair was slicked back against his head, curling round his neck. A pointed white beard in a similar style to Ewan’s made his drawn face look even longer, with sagging bags hanging below his heavy lidded eyes. The eyes had a wild look to them, a pronounced squint causing them to look outwards in slightly different directions.
‘You’re behind this, are you, boy? Very inventive.’
Kesslar straightened his right arm, shaking Whitley by the throat like a ragdoll. Her eyes were wide, looking desperately in Drew’s direction. She still looked terribly ill, her face pale and scared.
‘I’m sorry, am I not following the script?’ said the Goatlord, sweeping his free hand out over the courtyard dramatically. ‘I can’t lie in bed while your cohorts run roughshod over my city. I’m prone to improvising, you see? Like this!’
He dragged Whitley towards the balcony’s edge.
‘No!’ shouted Drew as Ewan and his men arrived at his side.
‘Ah, Ewan! Found a backbone at last have you?’
‘Let her go!’ yelled the Ramlord.
‘You dare command me? Take a look below, cousin. Your army of peasants is running out of steam. And bodies for that matter!’
Ewan walked warily forward towards the balcony, watching Kesslar all the while. Drew shifted over to see for himself, peering over the Ramlord’s shoulder. Kesslar didn’t lie.
The sky in the east was mottled red as daylight began to creep over Haggard. Drew counted a handful of dead prisoners in the courtyard and Kesslar’s soldiers were now armed and shielded. A dozen or so prisoners clung together, defending one another with their stolen weapons. They looked up desperately, spying Ewan on the balcony, as more soldiers of the Goat appeared, their net closing.
‘Are you just going to stand and watch them get butchered, Ewan?’ asked Kesslar. ‘You can put an end to this now. I’d rather not see all my stock put to the sword, but if I need to teach you a lesson …’
‘Don’t!’ said Ewan. ‘Please.’
Kesslar’s grin revealed those cracked yellow teeth. The fighting below had ceased momentarily as all looked up to the balcony. Surrender was moments away. Drew placed his hand on the Baron’s shoulder giving him an understanding squeeze.
‘It was a good fight, wasn’t it?’ said Ewan, before turning to Kesslar. Drew looked out over the city again, and beyond the walls.
‘Kesslar,’ began the Baron. ‘You have my …’
‘Wait!’ said Drew, gripping Ewan hard. ‘Look!’
Ewan followed Drew’s gaze over the rooftops. Over thirty men on horseback were riding towards the city up the steep cobbled road, unmistakably Greencloaks; the best six branches of Brackenholme’s army. At their head rode Lord Broghan, with Captain Hark
er at his side.
Kesslar eyes bulged with surprise, and he wasn’t the only one surprised.
‘Broghan!’ screamed Whitley.
The Greencloaks charged. Kesslar dragged Whitley into an embrace, holding her before him. The gate captain shouted a warning to the soldiers in the courtyard, but they were struck by indecision, unsure whether to attack. The thunder of hooves echoed through the streets, as the Goatlord’s men began to panic.
‘How quickly the tide turns, Kesslar,’ said Drew. ‘Let her go.’
‘Kill them!’ yelled Kesslar to those below.
Broghan’s Greencloaks emerged at the top of the courtyard, the riders quickly surveying the battleground. The bodies of butchered civilians lay in the dirt, while the armed mercenaries of the Goatlord stood over them, swords and spears still dark with blood. Broghan caught sight of his sister in the arms of Count Kesslar. Before the Bearlord could issue a command a dozen arrows rained down on his company from the walls. The captain at the gate hadn’t sat idle, having spread word to his archers. The Woodland Watch split formation, riding for cover as arrows flew. Haggard was beginning to look crowded as combatants from three sides waged battle.
‘Kesslar,’ repeated Drew. ‘Let her go.’
‘Who are you to command a Werelord?’ roared the Goat, his face distorting as horns broke free from his brow. Whitley squirmed as Kesslar’s chest pushed into her back, his lungs bursting as he changed. She could hear his ribs breaking apart and reforming, flesh tearing and hooves hammering as the Weregoat emerged.
Before Drew could answer there were screams from the door. The men who had escorted Ewan upstairs fell. One savage blow had taken them both out, the Wolfshead blade scything through the back of one before becoming embedded in the other. Djogo ripped the sword free as the body tumbled.
Kesslar stamped his hooves excitedly, his horns now completely grown as he stood to his full height.
‘Oh, splendid, Djogo! Splendid!’
The men fighting in the courtyard could see Kesslar now and were both horrified and in awe of the sight. Kesslar’s soldiers made a rush for Haggard Castle, disappearing indoors. The Woodland Watch rushed after them, the heavy doors slamming shut as they were barred from within. As the men of Brackenholme and Haggard tried to enter the castle below, the deadly game played out above.
Rage of Lions Page 17