The short, wiry figure of Figgis, his helmsman, manned the wheel. Small as the old man was he handled the great wheel with practised ease, holding it firm where lesser men might have been thrown from the deck. There was nothing Vega wouldn’t trust his chief mate with, the elderly pirate having served alongside his father on the Harbinger. Indeed, Figgis had seen to the disposal of Vincent, the Boarlord, spiriting the body away from Bevan Tower in the dead of night. Vega didn’t ask what had become of the corpse; he didn’t need to. He had every confidence in Figgis that the corrupt Werelord’s final resting place would never be uncovered.
Vega allowed his thoughts to drift briefly to Hector. He worried about him. The Baron of Redmire had already endured a terrible ordeal, witnessing his father’s murder and being partly responsible for his own brother’s death. The communing controversy hadn’t gone away, a dark cloud over his reputation. Vega had watched him transform from a chubby, cheery young fellow into a shadow of his former self. The sooner he was reunited with Drew the better; separation from his best friend had been tough, and Vega imagined that with the Wolf back they’d see the old Hector again. In the meantime the Shark had taken it upon himself to keep an eye out for the young Boar.
The sea before them raged, mighty waves crashing over the bow, the horizon constantly dipping and shifting. Vega could no longer see the ship they pursued. He looked up the rigging of the main mast. The crouched figure in the crow’s nest could be seen beyond the taut, straining sails, the icy rain whipping by like flying daggers. The boy was flinging his arms frantically, trying to catch their attention over the storm’s roar.
‘Figgis,’ shouted Vega, pointing to the mast. ‘The deck’s yours.’
Figgis glanced up, nodding sharply as he returned his attention to the wheel.
The Maelstrom pitched hard to starboard, a mighty wave threatening to send her off course, but she wouldn’t be denied. Vega ran, sure-footed and swift, leaping off a rail and grabbing the rigging, waves rushing by beneath him. In moments he was racing up the ropes towards the crow’s nest. He could see the closest following ship of Westland’s fleet was a tenth of a league behind. His fleet numbered thirty three ships, a mixture of galleons and converted merchant vessels called into service. Of those, ten were working warships, manned by experienced naval men.
The lone ship they chased had been spied off the south-eastern coasts of the Cluster Isles. There had been no mistaking it as a fighting vessel, equipped with light catapults and archers’ decks. It carried a single black flag, marking it as a pirate ship, but something jarred for Vega. Its design and build told him it was foreign and a long way from home. And the black flag wasn’t traditionally used by the pirates of the White Sea – he would know as Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles. In the light of the omens his men had witnessed, it had been only right to approach the strange vessel, and when it raced off – hardly the action of an innocent party – the fleet had given chase. Vega had never lost a pursuit, and no storm from Brenn or Sosha was going to stop him today. The black flag must be close now. He would have his ship.
Vega scrambled to the top of the mast, where the cabin boy Casper held on for dear life. The Maelstrom was rocking now, the momentum with which the crow’s nest swayed threatening to throw the cabin boy from his seat. Still the boy held on as instructed, one hand twined round the support rope within the barrel. Vega grinned, admiring his courage. The smile of the captain was all Casper needed to inspire confidence.
‘What is it, son?’ shouted Vega, clinging on as they pitched one way then the other in the rolling sea. The boy pointed ahead, over the crashing waves. The count followed his finger, spying the ship. It had turned hard to port, arcing away along a new line. Vega shouted over the screaming wind.
‘She’s trying to run, lad, but she won’t make it! We’ll have her, and there’ll be no more talk of omens!’
The boy tugged at Vega before he could descend, pulling him closer to yell in his ear. There was a reason Vega had sent Casper to the crow’s nest. The boy had the best eyesight on the Maelstrom.
‘Not the black flag, captain,’ he shouted. ‘The others!’
Vega strained to look through the storm at the horizon. It was hard to tell their actual number, but as they loomed into view he figured there were more than a hundred ships. These weren’t converted merchant vessels or requisitioned ships. These were galleons and men-o’-war. Vega could see the bare black flag flying from each ship in the mightiest armada he’d ever seen. That was when the copper dropped.
‘The black flag,’ he whispered, his voice carried away on the screaming wind. ‘Onyx.’
The campfires belched dark smoke into the night sky, struggling to remain lit in the rain. Only the hardiest soldiers of Stormdale braved the conditions, maintaining the fires while their companions sheltered in their tents. Earl Mikkel stood by his tent door, grimacing. He allowed the flap to swing shut, stepping back into his command tent where his captain waited for him.
‘Any word back from the scouts yet?’
‘None yet, my lord,’ replied the stocky Captain Harriman.
Mikkel was disappointed not to have heard back from his outriders yet. His small army of two hundred had camped north of the Great West Road, on the edge of bandit country. A smaller troop of soldiers might have been concerned about Sherriff Muller and his skirmishers, but a group this size had nothing to fear. Mikkel had sent half a dozen riders to alert various towns throughout the Dalelands of the developments in Westland and the stalemate with Leopold. Specifically he’d sent two on to the Barebones, one rider heading for his own town of Highwater while the other would continue on to the family stronghold of Stormdale.
‘Odd,’ grumbled the Staglord. ‘I’d have expected to have had riders back from at least Hedgemoor and Redmire by now.’
‘Perhaps the poor weather has kept them off the road?’
‘Very amusing, Harriman,’ smiled Mikkel. The men of the Barebones were as hardy as any in Lyssia. A bit of rain wouldn’t keep them from their task.
A low rumble rolled over the camp, audible over the constant drumming of the rain on the tent roof.
‘You hear that, my lord? This storm gets worse. Thank Brenn we brought the tents or we might have drowned.’
Mikkel nodded, looking down at the map that they’d laid out on a travel chest. He wondered where Drew might be, and if he’d managed to rescue Gretchen. It irked the Staglord that he’d been unable to exact justice upon Vankaskan. He only hoped, if the opportunity arose, that Drew could avenge Kohl’s death and the maiming of Manfred.
The earl studied the map. Five days travel from Highwater, then he’d be back in his dear Shona’s arms. He smiled. He’d missed his family and the mountain air. The rumbling continued, louder now, causing the pebbles that held the map down to dance and rattle along its surface. He placed a hand over a stone, feeling the tremors ride up through the chest below. Mikkel looked up at Harriman.
‘That’s not thunder,’ he shouted, snatching his greatsword from its scabbard.
The Staglord yanked back the door just in time to see the first horseman riding through the camp, launching a spear from his hand. Twenty feet away the spear found its target in one of Mikkel’s men, catapulting him into the wall of his tent. Enraged, the earl strode into the rain, embracing the Stag with each step. His ribcage groaned as his chest ballooned, muscles rising over his shoulders and neck as he snorted with fury. His face grew long, skin darkening as antlers ripped free from his head. A wicked arrangement of deadly spikes emerged, glistening with blood from his torn brow. In his hands he swung his greatsword, the now diminutive figure of Captain Harriman by his side.
Hooves thundered as hundreds of horseman galloped through the camp. Spears, arrows and blazing torches flew as the unprepared men of Stormdale staggered from their flaming tents into a hail of deadly missiles. Mikkel lashed out as one of the riders passed too close, the sword almost cutting the man in two. Another horseman followed, catching a ches
tful of the Staglord’s antlers. Mikkel hoisted the man from his saddle, flinging him through the air as he collided with another rider.
‘For Stormdale!’ he bellowed, rushing into the melee as his men found their courage at last. Harriman ran beside him, his longsword slashing and parrying blows. The riders drew scimitars, the curved blades whistling through the rain as they hacked at the Staglord’s men. The earl’s soldiers were now greatly outnumbered, being whittled down by the overwhelming force.
Mikkel found himself surrounded by the riders, quickly separated from his men. No sooner did he bring down a rider than another replaced his fallen comrade. Each time he gored a horseman or battered one with his greatsword, he felt a rain of blows from behind. Scimitars hacked through the broad, bare flesh of his back, each one more painful than the last as the therianthrope struggled to keep his feet.
The Staglord caught sight of Harriman’s body in the mud nearby, his eyes glazed over as the horsemen continued their murderous spree. His own vision blurred as he felt the scimitars striking him. The greatsword was heavy now, the unrelenting assault taking its toll.
A voice shouted in a language Mikkel didn’t understand. Immediately the riders ceased their attack, drawing back, leaving Mikkel to drop to his knees in a bloodied puddle. He snorted, struggling to catch his breath, head slumped against his chest. Thank Brenn, thought the Staglord. Mercy.
‘Parlay,’ cried Mikkel, raising his heavy head as a single rider rode forward. His antlers made his head loll back and the Werelord release his grip on his greatsword and lifted shattered hands to his face. He tried to wipe the blood and rain from his eyes to better see the smiling rider on horseback.
‘It can’t be,’ mouthed the Stag silently, instantly recognizing the horseman’s origin. Mikkel’s jaw went slack with horror at the precise moment the scimitar flew down, scything cleanly through the Staglord’s neck.
1
The Uninvited Guest
Cape Gala was changed. Where previously the streets had been a centre for trade and commerce, they stood empty. The storm had passed, but a menacing cloud hung over the city. This was nowhere more obvious than at the citadel. Gone were the elegant corridors, open windows and cool breezes blowing freely through the courtroom of High Stable. In their place hung dark drapes blotting out the sun, the floor littered with waste and the Horseguard replaced by warriors from Bast. The Rat was now in residence.
With Vankaskan on the throne, the city bore more resemblance to the hideous Vermire far in the north, home to the Rat King. His position might only be temporary until the Catlords returned from Westland, but he would enjoy himself while it lasted. Vankaskan was all for indulgence, gorging himself on every whim and fancy that caught his eye. Colbard, Sorin and the others had remained while Prince Lucas sailed north. They respected and feared the Wererat in equal parts, and as such were his trusted lieutenants while he governed the city. The soldiers from Bast were remarkably loyal, doing whatever the Rat demanded of them. Left to his own devices, he was free to pursue his passion: experimenting in dark magistery. In short, Vankaskan was very content.
The Rat hadn’t strayed from the courtroom since Opal had left, making the place his own. His request for the body of Duke Lorimer had been met with widespread disgust by the entire court, but none dared question the Rat. They’d seen what fate awaited those who stood against the Lion’s allies. Lorimer’s wasn’t the only corpse the Rat had seized. None sought audience with the Wererat, but all the Lords of the Longridings were forced to visit and swear fealty to him, an abhorrent act that Vankaskan delighted in. Nothing prepared them for the blasphemy they encountered within the once great courtroom of High Stable.
With all eyes on High Stable that evening, nobody noticed the shadow that danced along the rooftops of the towers and townhouses nearest the citadel walls. Crouching and hugging the slates, the figure crawled, jumped and skipped ever closer, searching for the ideal launch. He halted above an attic window, three storeys above street level. The roof leaned precariously out, overhanging the building below – the ramparts of High Stable almost thirty feet away and six feet lower.
Drew held his breath, controlling his heart rate. He heard occasional screams escaping the stone tower. What madness is going on in there? He prayed they hadn’t captured Whitley. His friends – Broghan, Harker, possibly Gretchen – were all in the citadel. He’d witnessed Lucas riding out of High Stable to the harbour, accompanied by frightful looking soldiers. With the Lion gone that left the Rat in command, and Drew was all too aware what Vankaskan was capable of.
Drew spied no guards on the wall. He wore little – torn leggings and a tattered cloak, everything else having been lost in the chaos that followed their ambush. It was time to let the beast come. He could feel his limbs elongating, toes and fingers growing, claws emerging as he clung to the tiles. Within moments he was part changed, his build dramatically altered into that of a wolfman. He took a couple of steps back, his lupine feet finding a better grip. He crouched, bouncing on his knees as he readied for his leap. With two quick bounds he was off the roof, his powerful legs launching him into the air and the street beyond. Broken tiles scattered behind him as the Werewolf flew through the sky, arms reaching forward as he covered the distance in one graceful animal bound.
Drew landed on all fours, claws digging into the stone walkway, his momentum almost carrying him over the wall and into the courtyard. Below he could see numerous people, all too busy to lift their gaze. If anyone had glanced up they’d have caught sight of a ferocious looking Werewolf trying not to fall into their midst. Drew retreated from the edge, staying low. He glanced along the wall, grateful for the dark of night and lack of guards patrolling. He let the beast recede, steadying his breathing to human levels and allowing his physique to return to normal. Drew studied High Stable with fresh eyes, the Wolf caged for the time being.
A loud wail echoed from the citadel. What in Brenn’s name is that? Drew dashed along the wall, past an open stairwell where he heard voices approaching. That’ll be the guards, then. High Stable’s outer walls were circular, running around the central citadel tower in a great ring. There were the main gates at the front in the western section, plus two smaller gates to the north and south-east. He’d observed the citadel frequently since he’d set his mind on freeing his friends. Looking down from above, the eastern side of the great tower was the quietest area, a stableblock running along its length. Drew scampered round, finding a point where he could drop on to the stable’s thatched roof. From here he could jump down to the courtyard. A convenient stack of hay had been piled in the corner at one end, allowing him a soft landing.
Emerging from the haystack Drew stayed in the shadows, surveying High Stable from the rear. He’d paid it little attention when he’d first arrived in the city, more focused on its occupants than the structure itself. Now he had to find a way in and avoid the guards for as long as possible. The citadel was maybe six or seven storeys tall. The large regal balcony of the courtroom was visible five floors up, black curtains flapping into the night. While the grand staircase rose up to the white wooden doors at High Stable’s entrance, the back door was a more modest affair. A dozen guards were posted at the front to meet guests and remove weapons, whereas just one guard stood to the rear, chatting idly to the occasional house staff as they came in and out of the tower. I guess that’s my way in, Drew figured.
Drew could see the guarded storeroom where his sword had been taken. Now wasn’t the time to search for the Wolfshead blade. He was here to rescue his friends, and if that meant he had to do it with tooth and claw as opposed to his father’s cold steel then so be it. He allowed himself a small prayer to Brenn, that the old sword would find its way into the hands of a noble and worthy owner, and said his silent goodbyes.
The opening of the main gates drew attention towards the front of the citadel, with even the rear guard wandering around the tower to observe what was going on. Drew could see a trio of caravans entering the court
yard, their colourful wagons marking them as entertainers. Sword-swallowers, fire eaters, snake charmers, musicians – the guards’ torches illuminated the crude paintings along the wagons’ sides. Soldiers escorted the caravan in with a ripple of excitement at the prospect of entertainment for the troops. It afforded Drew the perfect opportunity to dash across the courtyard and through the back door unchallenged.
A servants’ corridor ran through the building, with doors on either wall. To his right he found an empty guardroom, a couple of bunks and little else. A rich brown cloak of the Horseguard hung from the wall on a peg. Drew snatched it up, tearing off his own tattered cloak and shoving it under a bunk. He opened the chest, finding a full bronze helm looking back at him. Pulling the cloak round himself he checked its length, happy to see that it covered most of his body. He put the helmet on, snapping it into place. At a glance he looked like a Horseguard. A more observant viewer might notice the bare feet, but Drew was grateful for the dark. He stepped back out of the guardroom.
A staircase rose up to the left of the back door, following the curvature of the citadel walls. Quickly he was up it, taking two or three steps in a bound, his bare feet slapping against granite. His chest was tight with anticipation. The last person he wanted to bump into was a servant or some other innocent. He wanted to find his friends and get out as painlessly as possible. Passing two landings, he figured he was close to the fourth floor and the Horselords’ chamber. The staircase ended abruptly, leading into a sweeping circular corridor that Drew figured ran around the courtroom. He risked a glance, catching sight of the occasional noble and soldiers in the gallery before ducking back into the stairwell.
I can’t stay here. Someone’s bound to use the staircase at any moment.
Taking a deep breath he stepped into the wide curving corridor and set off round its edge, staying close to the outer wall and its tall windows. The corridor was gloomy, very few torches lit in the walls. The cold that struck up from the floor took Drew by surprise – there was something unnatural about the chill.
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