Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Who is he?’ asked the big northman, squinting through the gloom at Drew.

  ‘He’s the one I told you about, Colbard!’ said Sorin. ‘Killed Brutus in Highcliff.’

  ‘Afraid not,’ said Drew, backing away and following his crawling comrade. ‘Brutus was done in by the rats. But then, you’d know all about vermin. How is Vankaskan?’

  ‘What would you know about the old Rat?’ grunted Colbard.

  Drew glanced down again. The ranger was almost to the edge of the dock. A little further, just keep them occupied.

  ‘I know you and Vankaskan work for Lucas and I know he has Lady Gretchen. Where is she? And what kind of hold does Lucas have over the Horselords that they let his dogs run riot through their streets?’

  Colbard spat on the ground.

  ‘Hardly in a position to ask questions, are you boy?’ He shifted the axe in his hands, spinning the big blade as blood flicked from the steel. A leather loop on the end of the haft kept the weapon attached to his wrist. ‘I get smart-mouthed when I have a weapon at hand. I know you aint got no weapons on you. You sick in the head or something?’

  The big man laughed and his companions joined him. Drew could see their shadowy companions dispatching the other rangers. Hopefully more had escaped. He brought his attention back to the trio.

  ‘Duke Bergan and the Werelords shan’t stand for this. You and your masters should have fled when you had the chance.’

  ‘Fled?’ snorted Sorin ‘He thinks we’re fleeing! Quite the opposite, lad. We’re the welcoming committee.’

  Drew didn’t understand what the rogue meant. Welcoming committee?

  ‘Who are you greeting?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be here any day now. You won’t believe what’s in store for the Bear and his friends. What a shame you’re not going to live long enough to find out!’

  ‘Answer my questions and you walk away with your lives,’ snarled Drew, his voice deepening now.

  ‘Was he this confident in the sewer?’ asked Colbard, genuinely astonished. ‘He’s got some guts, I’ll give him that!’ The three stepped forward, weapons poised.

  ‘Does it matter?’ said Sorin. ‘He’s an unarmed halfwit. He’ll be just another dead ranger in a moment.’ The broken-nosed killer brought his longsword back.

  ‘Who said I was unarmed?’ growled Drew, letting the Wolf rip free.

  It was the fastest change he’d ever undertaken, and it felt fluid and focused. The three men paused, caught by surprise. A moment was all Drew needed. The Wolf hit the trio like a tidal wave.

  He went for Colbard’s axe first, grasping the blade with dark clawed hands and twirling it in the man’s grip like a spinning top. The big man watched in horror as the axe – and the loop round his wrist – spun repeatedly in his sweaty palm, his wrist locking with the momentum of the blade. The axe continued to spin, through and beyond the physical limit of his joints. First the wrist snapped and the elbow swiftly followed as the torque of the huge weapon threatened to rip his arm out of its socket. Colbard staggered to the ground, screaming like a stuck pig, the bones of his arm in pieces.

  The fat man lunged clumsily with the cudgel, taking a wild swing at Drew’s head that might have proved fatal if he’d been human. As a therianthrope he allowed the wooden club to bounce off his head, jarring him only slightly as he brought his changed face round to growl furiously at the man. The Werewolf’s unmistakable roar rose up from Saddlers Row and raced to every corner of Cape Gala. In that moment, the Horselords knew that the Wolf was in their city. The fat man stumbled away in terror, wisely deciding that this fight wasn’t for him. That left Sorin facing Drew.

  ‘I’m not scared of you,’ blustered Sorin, although his trembling voice said otherwise. He held his longsword up, striking a defensive pose in case the Werewolf lunged. Drew looked beyond the broken-nosed rogue and saw the shadowy shapes of Sorin’s companions beginning to draw in, lifting their bows. He had to make the most of this chance.

  He turned on his heel and snatched up the injured ranger, aware that Sorin was on the back foot, unprepared to strike.

  ‘Stop him!’ screamed Lucas’s man.

  Cradling the wounded man in his arms, the Wolf dug his claws into the earth and sprinted towards the first wooden pier, his feet pounding the planks along its length. No sooner had he set off than he heard the flight of arrows through the air. The missiles rained down upon him, but he didn’t look back. He felt three arrows hit him hard and deep in the back. Fatal strikes to a human, but to a lycanthrope merely painful wounds. Drew had endured worse before now.

  There was no sign of any other Greencloaks. He prayed that at least some had got away.

  ‘Hold on,’ Drew growled to the injured man, hoping to get them away from the chasing pack. There were boats he could jump on to, try to hide in, but both were bleeding – heavily – and they’d be sure to leave a trail. Behind he could hear the Lion’s men, shouting to one another as they covered all escape routes.

  Drew found himself at the end of the pier with nowhere left to run.

  ‘You strong enough to swim?’ he said to the man in his arms, his features reverting back to human. He couldn’t keep the change up for long, the beast devouring his energy voraciously. He looked down at the Greencloak.

  The man’s eyes were open and glassy as he peeled away from Drew’s chest. Two of the arrows that had struck the Werewolf had punched their way clean through his torso, finding their mark in the hapless ranger. One had made a clean hit to his heart. The only comfort Drew took was that it had probably been a swift death. He crouched over the pier’s edge, lowering him into the tide, and watched his body sink into the dark waters.

  He looked back down the pier, golden eyes burning. His superior night vision allowed him to clearly make out the approaching men. There were ten, arrows nocked, with possibly more behind. Sorin was in the middle somewhere. They couldn’t see him though, crouched on the jetty, shrouded in the sea mist.

  Drew winced as he felt the arrows in his back and chest grate against ribs and organs. He could stay and fight, take more injuries and hopefully defeat them. But it wasn’t a sure thing; he thought of Dorn and how he’d seen first hand how a relentless attack with unsilvered weapons could slay a Werelord.

  Or he could run and recover to fight another day. These were lackeys after all. The true villains were inside High Stable, seducing the Horselords. If Lucas and Vankaskan were there, then perhaps Gretchen was too.

  Drew scanned the harbour one last time. Dear Brenn, please look out for Whitley. He thought about Sorin’s words – the ‘welcoming committee’. Who was coming to Cape Gala? As if in answer there was a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning out to sea, over the Lyssian Bay. With a final glance back at the advancing soldiers Drew slipped off the pier and disappeared silently into cold, dark water. He was a lone Wolf once more, and it was time to take the fight to the real enemy.

  4

  Beyond the Gates

  Trying to enter Cape Gala was a formidable task. A man of money could easily secure passage, a flash of bronze would turn the head of most guards. A man-at-arms could sway them too, a sword for hire was always welcome in the city of merchants. But a man with nothing would be barred entry, the shanty town his only welcome port. Trying to enter was difficult if you were a nobody, but leaving was a different matter.

  Whitley bided her time, watching the guards patiently as they prepared to open up the gates. She’d been hiding across the street for half an hour, waiting for the next caravan to leave or enter the city. The rainclouds ensured her task was miserable as well as dangerous. She knew it was late, but she also knew the gate was in constant use. The shouts of the homeless floated over the palisade, reminding those within that all was not well across the Longridings. Those lucky enough to have rooves over their heads did their best to ignore the cries, turning a deaf ear to their brothers’ misfortune.

  The grinding of hinges heralded the gate’s opening, four guards stepping
up with their polearms lowered, keeping the mob at bay. A big wagon waited to enter, its own guards surrounding it as the horses stamped their hooves impatiently. With the gates fully open and the guards holding back the crowd, the horses advanced, pulling the wagon in.

  Whitley dashed forward, feet flying through puddles, a shadow flitting past the wagon, past its guard and straight past the City Watch. One of the soldiers saw the girl, as her head bumped the side of his halberd before she was swallowed by the crowd. The guards retreated, their faces set and grim. The gate slammed shut.

  Whitley was running now. She didn’t know where to, only that she needed to get away from Cape Gala and the villains who’d killed her friends. She and the three Greencloaks who had left Drew had taken a rowing boat. Quist, a tall graceful woman from the easternmost edge of the Dyrewood, had assumed command, structuring a plan of action as she rowed. They would take the water out of the city, get beyond the walls and make camp. One of them would go on up the River Steppen before striking out on foot back north. The other two would wait beyond the walls of Cape Gala for any sign of fellow survivors, guarding Whitley in turns. Get out, regroup; that was the Woodland Watch’s way when things went wrong.

  They hadn’t consulted Whitley, though. She had been dragged on to the boat against her will. Drew was on the shore somewhere, facing awful odds and possible death. Their friendship had been built on looking out for one another, and she wasn’t about to leave him behind, regardless of Drew’s blundering advance the previous evening. At the first opportunity she’d jumped off the boat and swum back to shore, the cries of the rangers disappearing behind her.

  She’d returned to Saddlers Row, creeping through the mists that clung to the harbourfront. By the time she’d arrived back at the scene of the ambush, there was no sign of battle, no sign of her fallen comrades or Drew. The enemy had disappeared and the street was quiet. The only clue was a couple of street cleaners brushing the road and splashing buckets of water over the cobbles. She’d shivered, panicked and soaking, more scared than ever, wary of every movement in the shadows as she’d made for the gates out of the city.

  The only notion she now had was to hide. Get to a place where she wouldn’t be noticed, couldn’t be found – she refused to be used as bait again. She’d seen the shanty town earlier. As Whitley ran in her still-damp clothes she glanced back to check if she was being followed, putting distance between herself and the gate. She was deep into the shanty town now. Fires burned between huts and tents as people gathered under tarpaulins to shelter from the rain.

  With her eyes glancing behind her and not ahead, it came as little surprise to Whitley when she ran headlong into a man. What did surprise her was the force with which the man took hold of her wrists. Whitley struggled, trying to pull free, looking up at the fellow who blocked her path. He was tall, well beyond six feet, with weatherbeaten skin and long black hair. His grip was like iron while his face remained impassive. Whitley kicked at the man, who responded by suspending the girl at arm’s length. Swiftly he spun the scout, tucking her under his arm as one might carry a rolled rug, his other hand clamped over her mouth. Then he was off, through the camp, the young Werelady firmly held: his prisoner.

  The man carried Whitley for a couple of minutes, immune to her struggles, kicks and muffled shouts. The people they passed paid them little attention. When they did look up some of them nodded to the tall man, showing no surprise at the fact he was striding around with a girl under his arm. They obviously knew him, but Whitley couldn’t work out whether they respected or feared him.

  Eventually they arrived at the shanty town’s outskirts, where the marshes of the River Steppen met the settlement. The air was thick with mosquitoes, big ones compared to the tiddlers back in Brackenholme. The man strode silently up to an animal-hide tent that perched near the swamp’s edge, tugging back the door flap, crouching and entering. Once inside he placed Whitley on the ground and moved back to the tent entrance, leaving the girl standing alone, fearful.

  The tent had a musty smell, as if the skins it was made from hadn’t been cured properly. Incense burned, perhaps to mask the odour of decay, but it was fighting a losing battle. Thick sheepskins were piled on the opposite side of the tent, a bed for the inhabitant, and a small fire burned within a circle of stones in the centre, a copper cooking pot suspended over it by a spit. The liquid inside bubbled and steamed, as the withered hand of the tent’s owner stirred the contents with a wooden spoon. The old woman sat cross-legged on the skins.

  ‘Sit down, girl,’ said the woman in a dry, husky voice. She patted the floor beside her. Whitley had never seen so old a person in her life. She was short and squat, her back terribly hunched and malformed as if she’d spent her life stooping. She worked a hand against her throat, hidden among a bundle of colourful scarves. Her thin grey hair – what was left of it – was scraped back from the top of her head and hung scraggy round her shoulders. Liver marks speckled the leathery skin of her face and hands and her toothless gums banged into one another, her tongue running their length as she sniffed at the stew.

  Whitley looked over her shoulder. The tall man remained.

  ‘Don’t worry about Rolff. He doesn’t bite. Apologies if he seemed rude. My dear friend is mute, you see?’ She tapped her throat with a bony finger. ‘Can’t speak a word, poor chap.’

  The tall man, Rolff, nodded sombrely to Whitley, as if by way of an apology. Her heart was racing. She still wasn’t at ease.

  ‘Please sit. I insist.’

  Reluctantly Whitley sat, but not beside the woman. She settled down on the opposite side of the pot to her, her eyes wide as she watched her every move. The scout was already looking for escape routes.

  ‘That was a brief stay in Cape Gala, young one. Were the Horselords not to your liking?’

  Whitley felt her stomach flip. How did she know their movements?

  ‘I have friends everywhere, child,’ she said, as if reading Whitley’s thoughts. ‘The people of the shanty town look after one another. There are few who enter or leave through those gates who aren’t noticed. Especially when they travel with such a large, armed group. Tell me, where are your companions?’

  Whitley didn’t answer. The old crone stopped stirring briefly to put her hands together, as if in prayer. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, child. Difficult as it might be for you to believe, you have nothing to fear from us. We are not your enemies. And we are not blind to the comings and goings of the Werelords.’

  ‘You know about the Werelords who came?’ asked Whitley, suddenly emboldened to ask questions of her own.

  ‘Have a drink girl.’

  The woman’s beady eyes twinkled as she picked up two tin cups and sloshed the stew into both, handing one to Whitley. The old woman slurped her own cup of broth encouragingly. Whitley took a sniff and a sip. It was a meat and potato stew and she was starving. She wiped her mouth against her still damp sleeve.

  ‘You’ll be catching your death in those wet clothes. Rolff, pull a cloak from the trunk.’ The tall man walked away from the tent flap to a chest and Whitley glanced at the doorway, torn between her meal and freedom. Again, it was as if the old woman read her mind.

  ‘Finish your broth, child, before you consider making good your escape,’ she chuckled.

  Whitley continued eating the first hot food she’d had since breakfast. She wondered what time it was. It had to be the early hours of the morning. What had become of Drew? How could they have parted with so much unsaid? She prayed he yet lived. What of her brother, Broghan? And why was the old woman so interested in her and her friends?

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Whitley, before tucking into the broth once more.

  ‘I’m known by many names,’ said the crooked lady. She scratched at her throat again, clearing her voice with a dry cough. ‘But you may call me Baba Korga.’

  Whitley had heard of Babas before – wise women from Romari communities across the north. Her childhood nursemaid had been Romari, trusted utterly
by her parents. Rosa had been a proud lady who had instilled in Whitley respect for her elders. Rosa’s lessons had stayed with her, and she looked at the old woman with fresh eyes.

  ‘How do you know so much about me and my friends, Baba Korga?’

  ‘Very fortunate is the young girl who can call the future king a friend, is she not?’ said Baba Korga. Whitley shivered; she’d as good as named Drew. ‘The people of this settlement are my eyes and ears. When you soldiers from Brackenholme arrived it caused quite a stir. Baron Ewan is a familiar face throughout the Longridings, and word spreads fast across the grasslands. Did not the young Wolf free Haggard from the tyranny of Count Kesslar?’

  Whitley nodded, confirming the rumours.

  ‘You see, child. There’s no faster messenger than word of mouth. A pebble can cause a ripple that spans an ocean. The Wolf is here at last, and the people await him.’

  It was beginning to make perfect sense to Whitley. She’d teased Drew about the notion of the Romari worshipping the Wolf, but he hadn’t been far wrong.

  ‘You know he’s a good person, don’t you?’ said Whitley, keen to show her loyalty to her friend.

  ‘Of course we do,’ said the woman, waving her bony hand dismissively. ‘He’s the one Werelord who can unite the continent again. The Seven Realms lie broken with the Lion defeated; only a strong king can mend them.’

  ‘That’s Drew! Don’t get me wrong, he can be stubborn when the mood takes him. But he is so big-hearted, so loyal to his friends.’ She found herself blushing as she described him, thinking back to their first encounter in the Dyrewood. ‘He’s like a hero from the old storybooks.’

  Baba Korga nodded, her toothless smile creasing her wrinkled face further.

  ‘Well, my girl. It seems he’s had a profound effect on you. You understand, then, why it is of the utmost importance that we help your friend escape that city, yes? Many lives depend upon him. Where is he now?’