Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  Whitley dropped her head. The last time she’d seen Drew, he’d been dashing into battle against insurmountable odds. She prayed he was still alive.

  ‘I don’t know. He was fighting the scoundrels who attacked us. There were so many of them. I’m worried he might not …’

  She couldn’t finish the sentence, the words catching in her throat. She suddenly comprehended how much the boy from the Cold Coast meant to her. The Baba reached across the fire, her fragile hand resting on Whitley’s shoulder comfortingly.

  ‘All is not lost, child. The Werelords have their powers and the magisters have their tricks, but there are older magicks in this world. People visit me when they need to know things. I provide answers, I divine the truths from the lies. Your friend Drew still lives. He’s within that city.’

  She pointed a bony finger into the dark. Whitley’s face instantly brightened.

  ‘You can help me find him?’

  ‘We can,’ nodded Baba Korga. ‘We have friends who can get you back into the city and Rolff here will protect you. But we need you to go and find Drew and bring him to me. He’ll listen to you. Even if Rolff could speak I can’t imagine Drew trusting a complete stranger. What is your name, child?’

  ‘Whitley,’ said the Lady of Brackenholme, holding her cup out for another helping of the hot broth. The crone spooned another portion into the tin beaker.

  ‘Go into Cape Gala, Whitley. Bring your friend to us, to safety. We Romari have always honoured the Wolf. He is a brother to our kind. Bring him so we may aid him as he saves this world.’

  Whitley nodded, relieved to be under the protection of the Baba and her people.

  ‘How do we get in?’

  ‘Drink up, Whitley, and I’ll tell you.’

  5

  The Broken Heart Tavern

  A curfew may have hung over Highcliff, but the hardened reveller could always find a watering hole, if he knew where to look. With the bells of Brenn’s temple marking midnight, a lone figure crept through the Low Quarter. Clad in a long black cloak, hood up, he flitted between shadows as he slipped through the night. The City Watch were absent from the docks, their attention focused on the wealthier quarters. If they’d stopped the man in black, they’d have been surprised; the last person one might expect to find wandering the docks at this ungodly hour was a Lord of Redmire. Even more alarming was the conversation he was having with himself.

  Beneath the cloak Hector’s hands curled round the jewel encrusted handle of his gaudy dagger, the white knuckled grip of his bare right hand clasped over the black-gloved left. Stepping into a darkened doorway he waited a moment to see if anyone followed him.

  What’s the matter brother? whispered Vincent. Are you afraid you’ve been rumbled? Is the game up?

  ‘No,’ said Hector, his voice trembling. ‘I fear there might be footpads nearby, keen to see the inside of my wallet.’

  Don’t they know the Lord of Redmire is penniless?

  ‘Your doing. Not mine.’

  They’ll be in for a nasty surprise if they dare threaten the great Hector, Wereboar of the Dalelands, won’t they? How does that blade feel in your piggy hands, brother? Heavy?

  Hector shifted the dagger from right hand to left, wiping his sweating palm on his breeches. As always, Vincent knew just what to say.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, brother. I can take care of myself.’

  Took care of me, didn’t you? the voice hissed.

  Hector glanced up the cobbled street, towards the Tall Quarter; nobody was there. It appeared even thieves were honouring the curfew tonight. He set off again, turning down an unlit alleyway. The uneven floor of the passage was slick with fish guts, but it cut through to where he wanted to be: Brandy Lane. A little way down he caught sight of his destination, the Broken Heart Tavern.

  Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late for you to scurry home. These aren’t children you’ve come to play with, brother.

  Indeed they weren’t. Hector knew who was in the tavern, suspected they were capable of terrible things, but he couldn’t leave them free to talk. They were loose ends and consequently needed tying up. He’d waited until late in the evening so they’d be in their cups when he entered, the booze hopefully slowing their reactions. Hopefully.

  They’re killers, hissed his brother, the dark voice licking his ear like a cold blade. Hector flinched, raising a hand to brush his ear nervously, as if chasing away cobwebs.

  When his brother had been stabbed and fallen to his death in Bevan Tower, Hector had imagined he’d finally be rid of him. It had been a terrible mistake, an accident, but it had happened nonetheless. He should be gone now, ending the torment for the young magister. How could he have been more wrong? With cruel irony the viles that had gathered round Vincent’s corpse and had worried his spirit loose, claiming it as one of their own. That very night Vincent had visited Hector while his mortal body was carried away to be disposed of by Count Vega. Only this Vincent had a new body, born of hate and night and death.

  Vincent’s vile followed Hector’s every twilight step, waiting for the sun to slip away before jumping upon him. It clung like a parasite, a cloak far darker than the black hooded cape Hector wore this night. With dawn the vile would dissipate, retreating to the shadows once more to leave Hector alone. But the relief was only fleeting. Hector could not hide from the night. Darkness would always find him.

  ‘Killers or not, I need to parlay with them.’

  The voice giggled in his ear.

  Listen to yourself – ‘parlay’ – how ridiculous you sound! This is not some game for noblemen you enter into, Hector. These men are ruthless. Why do you think I hired them?

  ‘You hired them because you were a fool, Vincent, and it’s my job to tidy up your mess.’

  The spirit hissed as Hector dashed across the street. He’d lost most of the puppy fat that had dogged him throughout his adolescence, but he was still out of shape. Having eaten little recently, Hector looked ill. His face was pale and his cheekbones sunken. His eyes were red-rimmed through lack of sleep as a result of his brother’s nightly visitations. He knew he’d neglected to look after himself, but he’d be able to set that right. All he needed was to find a way to banish this vile.

  He stopped outside the tavern’s side door.

  Turn back, came the whisper, a note of concern creeping into the vile’s voice. Hector ignored it, raising his right hand to rap sharply on the frame. A wooden slat suddenly flew back, revealing a pair of squinting eyes. They looked him up and down, regarding him suspiciously.

  ‘Help you?’

  Hector didn’t speak. He raised his right hand to reveal the signet ring Vincent had taken from their dead father. His twin had been wearing the ring around town, using it to gain entrance into all manner of places. Hector was under the impression that the ring carried some weight at the Broken Heart Tavern. If it didn’t this would be a very short escapade. Thankfully for Hector the ring registered with the doorman, who slid the hatch back and unlocked the door, allowing the magister entrance.

  Very clever, Hector.

  Hector ignored the voice, passing the brute of a doorman who re-locked the door and gestured to a staircase that disappeared below ground. Hector nodded and stepped downstairs, his heart thundering like a Sturmish smith’s hammer. The doorman watched the visitor descend.

  The flight of stairs ended in a cellar. Barrels flanked him, the smells of stale beer and damp were overwhelming. A trail of tobacco smoke hung at head height, rolling out of an open door ahead.

  ‘You came here to relax?’ he muttered.

  I came here to win money. They’re all idiots down here who want to lose their coins.

  ‘This was where you lost our money.’

  Stop moaning, you little girl. Always whinging, crying like a baby …

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Hector, just as a man appeared at the doorway, surprised at the magister’s outburst. Hector smiled awkwardly as he stood to one side. The man shuf
fled past, giving him a wide berth.

  ‘Shut … up …’ whispered Hector, as he stepped through the doorway.

  The room beyond was thick with smoke, with snugs and nooks on each wall that should have held barrels. With the curfew still in effect the barrels had been removed, freeing the cellar up as a gambling den. Each compartment now housed seats and small tables where men gathered to play various games: dice, mumbly-peg, deadly six, bones. A large lady sidled past with a tray of drinks on one arm. There were maybe twenty men in the room, some just here to get drunk while their friends cursed or cheered at their luck. Hector squinted through the foul smoke.

  ‘Are you sure they’ll be here?’

  They’re always here. They know no better. Money, Hector; gold drives a man.

  ‘There they are!’

  Four men sat at a round table as the steady thunk-thunk-thunk of a short-handled knife hit the wooden tabletop. Hector recognized the fat one straight away – Ibal. The giggler had his hand on the table, pudgy fingers splayed, stabbing the blade into the wood between each digit. Two of his companions threw insults as they tried to put him off, a pile of coppers wagered in the table centre. To his credit Ibal smiled and ignored them, concentrating on the task at hand. Beside him sat Ringlin, reclining against the bench they shared while puffing on a thin reed pipe. None of them had noticed Hector.

  What will you do now, Hector? Kill these two – and then what? There must be two dozen men down here. You’d never get out of here alive.

  Hector looked over his shoulder at the vile, an ethereal shadow hanging from his back. His throat was dry, his lips cracked and parched. His hand trembled under the cloak as it clutched the gaudy dagger.

  What are you waiting for? Go on, coward. See how you fare against these two. If you think every murder will be as easy as mine you’re in for an awfully big surprise, brother.

  Hector tried to push Vincent from his mind as he stepped to the edge of the table. His knee caught the tabletop, knocking it. The knife came down and nicked Ibal’s thumb with a wet snick!

  ‘What the …’ began Ringlin, going silent when he saw who stood over them. Ibal stuck his thumb in his mouth, sucking at the wound. He stopped when he saw Hector.

  A white-haired man opposite reached out, grabbing the coppers, dragging them across the table to empty into his lap. Ringlin never took his eyes off Hector as he spoke.

  ‘Leave those coins, Poom. That game is void. You and Ibal may play again once we’ve attended to … business.’

  ‘That was a fair win,’ said the one called Poom.

  ‘You can leave the coins or you can get a better look at the knife,’ said Ringlin, still staring at Hector. ‘Your call, old man.’

  Begrudgingly Poom pushed the coins back into the table’s centre, squeezing out and making for the bar. His companion followed him, mocking him all the way. Ringlin cast his hand to the now vacated seats.

  ‘Please sit,’ he said casually, but his eyes told a different story. They were narrow, trying to read Hector. Ibal was much the same, watching Hector with a mixture of fear and loathing.

  They’re wary of you? Unbelievable! Murdering me has made you fearsome, brother.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Hector.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Ringlin.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hector awkwardly, sitting down on the bench opposite. His cheeks were flushed with colour as he realized they’d seen him talking to nobody.

  ‘I can’t say we were expecting to see you again, Lord Hector,’ said Ringlin, his hands falling under the table. ‘A little out of your depth, aren’t you?’

  That’ll be him reaching for his long knife. You know the one – serrated edge, good for gutting pigs with. And Ibal has his sickle, remember?

  ‘I know,’ said Hector.

  ‘You know?’ said Ringlin. ‘Then why come? Our business is closed since your brother … died. You remember that, don’t you? We do.’

  Ibal nodded, finding his voice with a gurgling giggle.

  ‘I remember all too clearly,’ said Hector. ‘It was a terrible accident.’

  He tried to block out the shrill laughter of the vile in his ear as Ringlin spoke.

  ‘Count yourself lucky we never went to the authorities with what we saw. Would make for an interesting chat with the old Bear, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘He wouldn’t believe you.’

  ‘Mud sticks. Your reputation is already in pieces. A rumour could destroy you, let alone something that truly happened, Piggy!’

  Hector’s mind clouded quickly, ears thrumming as a headache struck out of nowhere. Everything in the room shifted and faded as his thoughts focused on Ringlin. He couldn’t hear what Ringlin said, but he could make out his expressions well enough; smug smiles and sneering taunts. Hector found his left hand rising from beneath his cloak with a will of its own, black-gloved fingers reaching across the table. Immediately he felt the vile disengage, leaping across the table at his command and slithering round Ringlin’s throat like a black noose. Instantly the rogue’s eyes widened and his mouth stopped flapping, his hands shooting to his neck.

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  Hector heard his voice as if a stranger had said the words. It was deep, alien, but it had come from his mouth. As he realized something awful was happening his ears popped, the sound in the room returning instantly. The vile was suddenly back on his shoulder, its grip on Ringlin released. The man fell forward, spluttering as he tried to gather his composure. Hector shook his head, trying to straighten his senses, hurriedly bringing his gloved hand back below the table. Ibal watched the two of them with wide eyes, his giggling silenced for once.

  What was that? screeched Vincent in Hector’s ear.

  ‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Hector, shaking his head.

  Ringlin rubbed his throat, staring at Hector with newfound fear.

  ‘What do you want from us? We’ll say nothing, you have our word. We owe your brother nothing.’

  Dogs! spat the vile. You owe me everything! You were penniless thugs when I met you. You’re not shy of coin now! Kill them, Hector. Kill them now!

  Hector ignored his dead brother. He cleared his throat, still reeling from the darkness that had assailed him.

  ‘You entered into a contract with the House of Redmire. My brother may be dead, but he paid you well to serve the Boars.’

  ‘He paid us coppers,’ sneered Ringlin.

  ‘Then stay with me and see gold,’ said Hector, his voice serious as he stared from one man to another. The two put their heads together, Ibal whispering something into Ringlin’s ear. The tall man nodded before turning back to Hector.

  ‘What’s to stop us from just walking away?’

  ‘Honour and consequence,’ said Hector. ‘The honour of service to Redmire.’

  ‘And what consequences if we don’t accept?’

  ‘Do I need to answer that?’

  For the first time in his life Hector allowed menace to creep into his voice. It would have been out of character but for the performance with the gloved hand. He placed it on the table now, flexing the black leather-clad fingers into a fist.

  Clever, Hector. Fear is the only language they understand.

  ‘Gold, you say?’

  ‘Eventually, in good time. In the meantime I’ll see you’re paid whatever Vincent gave you. You shan’t go without.’

  Hector rose, sliding the gaudy dagger back into its sheath and straightening his cloak.

  ‘Gather your winnings. I’ll wait for you upstairs.’ With that Hector made his way back to street level.

  I don’t understand. Why would you want those turncoats working for you? They’ll betray you the first chance they get.

  ‘I shall treat them differently. Boundaries, Vincent; you made none and they took advantage of that. I won’t make the same mistake.’

  No, you’ll make all new ones, sneered the vile. And I’ll be there to laugh when you do.

  ‘Interesting what happened in there, Vince
nt. The command …’

  The vile fell silent for a moment.

  My kind have never known of such a thing. What necromancy was that?

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out.’

  Hector arrived upstairs, waiting for the men to join him. The doorman watched him with suspicion, but Hector was past worrying about what others thought about him this night.

  But why Ringlin and Ibal? With all they know?

  ‘Precisely because of that. I’ll keep my friends close, but my enemies closer. You said yourself they’re dangerous. I may have use for such fellows in the weeks and months ahead. I fear Lyssia is on the brink of something terrible.’

  The two rogues arrived at the top of the stairs, grabbing their cloaks from pegs on the wall.

  ‘Where to, boss?’ said Ringlin, straightening the long knives in his weapon belt. Ibal patted the bag of coins at his hip, allowing himself a brief triumphant giggle.

  ‘Bevan’s Tower,’ said Hector. ‘And it’s not boss. It’s Baron Hector, Lord of Redmire.’

  6

  Power Play

  Lord Broghan awoke suddenly as a fist hit his stomach. He winced as the hessian bag was whipped off his head and sunlight streamed into the courtroom of High Stable. A single manacle was fastened round his left wrist, keeping him chained to the wall. He struggled to rise. His arm was dislocated, his enemies having left him hanging from the wall since his capture. He struggled to focus his eyes, disoriented as blurred silhouettes passed before him.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he shouted, raising his free hand to his eyes as he yanked on the chain. A huge bald northman stood in front of him, his own right arm in a sling, his other fist still curled from the punch. The man wore a golden breastplate that marked him instantly as one of King Leopold’s men. His grin was framed by a dirty grey beard. He threw another punch, striking Broghan’s stomach with a meaty thwack.

  ‘Enough!’ came a voice from behind the northman. The brute stood to one side, allowing his master to step forward. Broghan recognized the voice immediately: Prince Lucas, the Lion of Highcliff. The left-hand side of his face bore a trio of scars, a new addition since he’d last seen the boy.