Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  Kesslar gestured to Drew, his gravelly voice thick with hatred.

  ‘Kill him! And then that fat lamb Ewan!’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Djogo, spinning the Wolfshead blade as he closed on Drew.

  Drew backed away as Djogo tried to close his escape routes. Ewan stumbled clear as the southerner strode past, staying out of reach. Djogo managed a smile for the Ram.

  ‘Your turn will come, old man.’

  Four of Kesslar’s men appeared in the doorway, fresh from the fight.

  ‘Men of the Dyrewood, sire,’ shouted one of them, panting for breath. It was Purney, Djogo’s man from the throne room.

  ‘I’m not blind!’ yelled Kesslar.

  ‘The doors are barricaded, master, but for how long, who can say? There’s thirty of ’em, as well as the locals. They might be a match for us. Maybe we need to make tracks?’

  ‘Hold your tongue, Purney. I’ll decide when we’re leaving. And as long as I have this pretty thing,’ he said, sniffing at Whitley’s hair, ‘we have something to bargain with.’

  The mercenaries began to advance, closing on Drew.

  ‘Back!’ shouted Kesslar. ‘Watch as your captain shows you how to gut one of these men of the Dyrewood.’

  Drew had nowhere left to run. At his back was an ornate fireplace, the coals from the night’s fire still glowing. In front of him was the brutal looking Djogo, whip curled on his hip, shifting Drew’s sword in his grip as he neared. If he sticks me with it, thought Drew, it won’t be the first time. It hurt but it didn’t kill me. It was small comfort – Djogo looked like a seasoned killer and probably rarely missed.

  The slaver smiled at his friends, who cheered him on. Drew must have looked harmless. Wrong. Taking the initiative, Drew leapt. His fist cracked Djogo’s jaw, sending him spinning back a few steps. Drew pounced on to his back, tugging the man’s whip from his hip. He threw it about his throat and pulled tight. Instantly Djogo staggered backwards towards the fireplace. Drew yanked at the leather with all his might, but the southerner’s neck muscles bulged like hardened teak.

  Drew felt the hard edge of the mantlepiece strike his shoulders as Djogo launched him into it, driving him back against the stonework. His grip on the whip went slack as air escaped his lungs. As if the impact wasn’t enough, he felt the back of Djogo’s head crash into his face. Blood erupted instantly as his nose shattered and he went limp against the southerner’s shoulders. Djogo stepped forward casually as Drew collapsed with a crunch.

  Drew could hear the men’s laughs as Djogo paced around him. His vision was blurred as he looked up, his face inches from the dying fire. To the side he could see a dejected Ewan and a stamping Kesslar, Whitley limp in his grasp. He could feel the Wolf straining to break out. If he unleashed it he’d be dead in seconds, strangled by the iron collar round his neck, saving Djogo the grisly job.

  ‘Finish the child off and get on with this old fool,’ Kesslar rasped, kicking a scared looking Ewan to his knees.

  ‘As you wish,’ snarled Djogo, turning to Drew as he reached towards the fire. He raised the sword as Drew stumbled to his feet, punching Djogo in the face with what strength remained. He clutched a fistful of sharp hot coals in his hand, leaving them behind in Djogo’s face. The big man screamed in agony, striking Drew and sending the young man back to his knees. Many of the coals fell away, but a number found the flesh and remained, smouldering, embedded in his face. One wicked shard protruded from Djogo’s left eye, blood hissing against the white hot rock.

  Drew’s hand was peppered with hot studs of coal also, but he didn’t care. He threw the villain his most brazen smile, his face bloody from his broken nose. Djogo lost whatever self control he still had, but by now Drew had resigned himself to the end. The irony of being killed by that sword wasn’t lost on him. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.

  Half-blind, Djogo poured his fury into the swing. It was brutal and unorthodox, but either way it was aimed where it needed to go. He’d beheaded many men over the years – deserters in his old lord’s army, rivals in the gladiatorial arena, enemies on the battlefield. He might have baulked at the task of slaying a youth, but not this one. If ever anyone needed his head removing it was this Dyrewood scum. The sword descended on the boy’s neck, swift as lightning.

  Sparks flew.

  7

  Unleashed

  The reaction to the blow was mixed. Baron Ewan looked away, while Whitley, choking, closed her eyes in horror. Kesslar let loose a bellowing bray, his soldiers cheering. Djogo staggered back, almost dropping the sword as he lifted a hand to his ruined eye. The boy’s body lay in a heap on the floor in front of the fire.

  Djogo grabbed the coal in his eye socket, giving it a sharp tug. It made a popping sound as it tore free, his hand swiftly staunching the blood flow. His men stepped up to congratulate him, aware that their commander was gravely injured, but Djogo ignored them and turned to the body.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ wheezed Kesslar, kicking Ewan forward. ‘You’ve another one to do here, remember.’

  ‘A moment,’ said the killer. ‘I need to check something.’

  Something wasn’t right. The sword had hit the youth in the neck. He’d felt the sword bite home and the body crumple. But the head hadn’t come free. And where had those sparks come from? He kicked the body over, expecting to see the mess his gruesome handiwork had created painting the flags. Instead he saw the boy intact, and two broken pieces of pig iron on the floor.

  The sparks. The collar. Shattered.

  Djogo’s four companions gathered round the corpse. The Goatlord stared, but not at the boy or collar. He was looking at the sword in Djogo’s grasp.

  ‘His head ain’t come off!’ said Purney.

  ‘The collar …’ began Djogo, ignoring his men as they kicked the body.

  ‘Forget the collar,’ snapped Kesslar, loosening his grip on Whitley as he took a lurching step forward. ‘Where did you get that?’

  Djogo looked at the sword in his hand.

  ‘The sword?’

  ‘Am I speaking another language? Yes, the sword! It’s a Wolfshead blade! As carried by Wergar’s closest guard. Where did you get it?’

  ‘From the boy,’ said Djogo.

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘This boy,’ said Djogo. The four soldiers began to slowly back away.

  ‘Boss …’ began Purney. At that moment a grey clawed hand shot up from the floor, catching the man in the neck. In a split second Purney was catapulted into the air, his head crashing into the ceiling before his body hit the floor. The other three scrambled away, stumbling into one another. The first was grabbed by the ankle, the monster spinning him across the floor into the fireplace. The guard screeched as he rolled in the hot coals, skin smoking. The remaining two flanked Djogo.

  Drew rose, still mid-change, the Wolf’s arrival bringing a second burst of energy. He felt alive, for the first time in ages. His lips peeled back as drool dripped from between ever-sharpening teeth. His torso rippled, dark hair shooting from the greying skin, as the claws of his bare feet scraped along the slate flags. Yellow eyes blinked balefully.

  ‘It can’t be!’ bleated the transformed Kesslar, still squeezing Whitley, his shield against the monster.

  ‘Oh, but it can,’ smiled Ewan.

  Djogo grabbed his men, shoving them forward.

  ‘Come on, lads. He’s a boy under all that fur. Let’s have him!’

  The men rushed the Wolf, their weapons raised and slashing. Drew took a blow to the shoulder as he dropped to one knee, using his crouch as a springboard to propel himself into one of them. The Wolf carried the man through the air as they landed with a splintering crash on to a table, the wood showering down around them. Drew snatched up the fallen man’s shortsword, hurling it back across the room like a throwing knife. It hit the remaining guard in the leg, sending him toppling to the ground in agony. That left just him and Djogo.

  ‘Now,’ growled Drew through his bared teeth. ‘Back
to you. And me.’

  Djogo looked at the Werewolf and then back to his defeated soldiers. He grabbed the handle of the shortsword that protruded from his guard’s thigh, tugging it out. Kesslar had begun to work his way round the edge of the room towards the doorway.

  ‘You go nowhere, Kesslar,’ Drew snarled. ‘Not finished with you.’

  Regardless of his size and monstrous presence, the Goat seemed in awe of the Wolf. Whether the sight of him had reminded the count of an encounter with Wergar years ago, Drew would never know, but faced with a transformed lycanthrope Kesslar panicked. Baron Ewan moved to cut the Goat off, blocking his route out of the room. Kesslar returned to the balcony, peering worriedly over the edge, Whitley still held tight in his grasp. The young woman from Brackenholme was limp now, the Goatlord forgetting his strength as he held her about the throat.

  Djogo took this moment to lunge at Drew, aiming for his guts. Drew turned into the thrust, but not quickly enough. The Wolfshead blade tore a thin strip through his hip, separating muscle. As the man passed, Drew lost his footing for a moment as the pain hit him. The southerner’s shortsword flashed past too, tearing another wound along Drew’s torso. The half-blind warrior whirled, weaving and hacking with the swords, as Drew found himself retreating. The man was deadly with weapons, more competent than anyone he’d faced before. His missing eye was helping to even things up, though.

  Djogo and the Werewolf circled one another. The great door of Haggard Castle rattled as Lord Broghan’s men hammered at it, using everything to break it down.

  ‘They’ll be in soon,’ snarled Drew. ‘Give it up. Drop your weapons. Release Whitley!’

  Kesslar looked at Djogo. He nodded before lifting Whitley over his head by her long brown hair and hips. Throttled by Kesslar until she’d lost consciousness, she dangled in his grasp, arms and legs loose, as he tottered on the balcony. Drew advanced towards him, the Wolf disappearing. His jaws began to retract, the teeth shortening, his build beginning to revert to that of a human.

  ‘Stop there!’ warned Kesslar, staggering over the low parapet.

  ‘Please!’ begged Drew, but he could see Kesslar was beyond reason, gripped by a furious anger. His hooves slipped, Whitley’s body lurched. If he took another step, both would be over the edge.

  Ewan acted fast, jumping up from where he crouched on the ground he snatched at Kesslar’s ankles. His hands gripped the Goatlord’s boots, stopping him in his tracks, but his body lurched forward. The Goat wailed, releasing Whitley. As her body was propelled forward Drew leapt. The stone courtyard was thirty feet below them, a fatal fall for anyone, including an unconscious therianthrope.

  Time slowed as he passed the Goatlord, braying furiously at the old Ramlord. Whitley’s body floated through the air over the balcony. Throwing an arm out, Drew followed Whitley through the air. His right hand caught her ankle, but his body kept moving. The stone banister hit Drew’s stomach, briefly halting his momentum, before he tipped over the edge after her.

  Drew’s plummet was halted suddenly and violently. He felt his left arm might tear from its socket as Ewan’s strong hands closed round his ankle. The jerking stop almost made him release Whitley from his grasp, and Drew screamed as he strained to keep hold. She dangled upside down for what seemed like an eternity. Drew could feel his bloody hand losing its grip on her boot. The men of Haggard and the soldiers from Brackenholme who surged against the great door looked up, Broghan moving through them to stand below.

  ‘Let her go, Drew,’ he cried, his men gathering round him, dropping their weapons. ‘We’ve got her!’

  With a gasp Drew relinquished his grip, watching as she fell through the air. The men caught her, safely handing her into the arms of her brother. Ewan hauled Drew back over the edge of the balcony, the youth crumpling to the floor, exhausted.

  ‘You all right, lad?’ he said, holding Drew’s face in his leathery hands. Drew nodded, glancing past the Werelord’s shoulder.

  ‘Where’s Kesslar?’ The two of them looked towards the open doorway.

  ‘Can’t let him get away,’ grunted Drew, struggling to his feet.

  ‘Damn them!’ screamed the Goatlord, striking out indiscriminately at his men as he rushed down the sweeping staircase, Djogo close behind.

  ‘We need to leave this dungheap now,’ said Djogo, the only soldier immune to the count’s fury. As Kesslar’s long-time second in command, he was used to the Goat’s wrath. ‘They haven’t all escaped. At least fifty were recaptured – they’ve already been sent to the Banshee. We should leave with what we have.’

  Kesslar ground his teeth with irritation as he glared around the hall. Eight of the prisoners who’d survived the fight stood beside the throne, recaptured. Armed soldiers surrounded them, spears and swords readied. The castle’s great door shook with the impact of the Woodland Watch’s makeshift battering rams.

  ‘Kesslar,’ repeated Djogo. ‘We need to leave. Now.’

  Kesslar stepped towards the eight men. He recognized one of them, the big brute from Calico, Lord Dorn.

  ‘Ah, Brand’s boy,’ said Kesslar. The young man was tall but, changed into the Goat, Kesslar dwarfed him. The other prisoners cowered, backing into the soldiers’ weapons, as the Goatlord menaced them. Dorn’s body was criss-crossed with open wounds from where he’d battled Kesslar’s small army. How many had the young Bull taken down? The impertinent oaf stood his ground, staring back with calm eyes. Quick as a flash the Ram butted him, sending the young Werelord staggering into his companions. The Bull looked up, stepping forward defiantly again.

  ‘You don’t deserve the Arena,’ spat Kesslar at the Bull-lord. ‘Djogo; the Wolfshead blade.’

  Reluctantly the southerner handed his new weapon over to the count. Kesslar’s soldiers advanced, some raising their weapons, others drawing them back. The prisoners recoiled. The Weregoat weighed the blade for a moment, before turning back to Lord Dorn.

  ‘I need you to pass a message on to Baron Ewan and the Wolf.’

  Drew and Baron Ewan stumbled downstairs, just as Broghan’s men finally splintered the great door of the castle. Greencloaks and the surviving members of Haggard’s militia rushed into the hall, swords up and bows drawn. Captain Harker dashed up to Drew, clapping him on the back.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Drew! Looks like you’re neck deep in trouble again.’

  ‘Trouble doesn’t come close, Harker. Your timing’s impeccable. A moment later and I dread to think what would’ve happened. How did you know we’d be here? We’re some way off the road to Cape Gala.’

  ‘We stopped in Cheaptown a couple of days back,’ said the captain, walking with him as Ewan strode ahead into the throne room to survey the carnage. ‘You made an impression; they said you were heading this way.’

  ‘How is Whitley?’ asked Drew.

  ‘She’s all right. Broghan is with her outside.’

  ‘Where’s Kesslar?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I was hoping you could tell us …’

  ‘There are tunnels,’ said Drew, gesturing to the back of the throne room. ‘They lead down to Haggard’s Bay. We should pursue them before they escape.’

  Their conversation was disrupted by a sudden cry. A crowd of men was gathering round the marble throne. As Drew and Harker approached some turned, shaking their heads sadly, weeping and retching. They parted to reveal a sight that made Drew’s blood run cold. The butchered bodies of a handful of prisoners lay strewn over the throne and dais, their blood pooling over the steps. Ewan crouched before the seat, shoulders hunched, rocking to and fro.

  Drew wanted to put his hand on the baron’s shoulder, whisper words of comfort and sympathy, but he could find no words. He looked at the pile of bodies, feeling bile rise as he recognized the corpse of Lord Dorn. He lay slumped on the top of the heap, face down, a sword sticking out of his back like a flag on top of a conquered mountain.

  Drew looked up at the sword, eyes streaming as hot tears burned his face. The Wolfshead
roared back at him.

  8

  No More Sleeps

  Count Vega leaned back perilously in his chair, wondering if anyone would notice if he fell off it. He looked out of the window beside him. Highcliff was swallowed by the night, the darkness broken only by lights twinkling in windows like diamonds on a black sheet. He was enduring the arguing of the Lords of Brackenholme and Stormdale, spit flying and fingers jabbing, wondering how he managed to get himself into these situations. There’s a reason I shouldn’t meddle in the affairs of landlubbers. Vega had been told from a young age that ‘dirtwalkers’, as his mother referred to them, were complicated. Stick to the seas, boy, she would say; that was a Sharklord’s home. Not cooped up in a stone tower watching a Bear and a Stag go at one another. And these two are friends!

  ‘Stand down, Bergan!’ shouted Mikkel. ‘I’ll put you on your rump if you don’t show some respect!’

  ‘You’re acting like a child,’ roared the Bearlord. ‘This is not what your brother would want!’

  ‘You think I don’t know my own brother?’ Mikkel turned to Vega for support. ‘Do you hear him, cousin?’

  Vega raised his gloved hands in a show of non-participation.

  ‘I’m “cousin” all of a sudden, now? Count me out, children.’ The wooden chair legs struck the stone floor hard. Bergan and Mikkel looked at him expectantly.

  ‘But Vega,’ said Bergan. ‘As part of the Wolf’s Council …’

  ‘Oh spare us the talk of the Wolf’s Council,’ interrupted the Earl of Highwater. ‘Drew is gone, Brenn knows where, and there’s no sign of him returning. All the while we sit here doing nothing when we should be mobilizing our armies.’

  ‘Don’t you see, Mikkel, how much we need strength in numbers here? Our combined forces can hold the city presently, defend the walls against invasion if need be. If you uproot your men to return to the Barebones you’d leave us short-handed here. We don’t have the manpower to defend Highcliff alone.’