Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  The remains of Westland’s navy limped into the harbour, only its smallest and fastest ships returning. Of the warships that had set sail to banish ill omens, the Maelstrom alone remained. Bergan was yet to discover who had defeated them. The countryside in the east was alive with activity, as farmers and villagers from the surrounding hamlets tried to enter the great walled city. Behind, drawing ever nearer, an enormous dust cloud blotted out the horizon as an enemy of great might approached.

  To the south the Redwine opened into the sea, the river teeming with small craft as they passed one another across the mouth. Some had packed up their belongings and made straight for Rushton across the water. Others came in the opposite direction, hearing that the countryside was no longer safe.

  And directly north of the Crow’s Nest stood the Keep. For weeks the walls had sat silent bar the Raging Lion. Now they bristled with life as Leopold’s surviving soldiers prepared for one last battle. Who was coming to aid them? What army approached by land? And what navy had devastated Vega’s fleet? Leopold could be seen racing along the ramparts, rallying his troops, the occasional sighting of a Wererat sending shivers down the spines of the Bearlord’s men. The king might be feared, but the Rats were beasts of nightmare. And through all of this, the rain still fell.

  Duke Manfred stood by Bergan’s side, one of his remaining men securing his armour, Baron Hector looking on. The Lord of Stormdale’s wounds were not fully gone. Hector had done what he could to aid the healers from Buck House, lending them his own knowledge of medicine, but the duke wouldn’t remain in his bed. Highcliff needed defending and he wouldn’t let an injury stop him.

  ‘Go easy on the buckles,’ said Hector as the soldier pulled them tight. The armour of the Werelords was commonly forged in Sturmland, bound by straps of unusual leather that allowed movement and stretch. If a therianthrope changed while armoured, the suit would move with the transformation, accommodating a shifted Werelord. The armour could be broken free via a series of hidden buckles, the location of which known only by the wearer.

  ‘I’m fine, Hector,’ wheezed Manfred, lying badly. His face was pale as he tried to smile. ‘Any sign of Vega?’

  ‘The Maelstrom has just moored up,’ said Bergan. He turned back to the dustcloud in the east. ‘I expect we’ll see him presently and he can tell us what happened at sea.’

  ‘Who is it?’ whispered Hector, staring beyond the wall towards the approaching force.

  Bergan glanced at the young Boarlord. He’d changed a lot in the last few weeks. Since taking on his father’s title of Baron less than a week ago, he’d shown more drive and purpose, making himself available to the Wolf’s Council as well as cleaning up the many messes Vincent had created for Redmire. He’d been so busy that Bergan hadn’t had time to quiz him about the whereabouts of his brother. Perhaps becoming this new, mature Hector was his way of earning the trust of his fellow Werelords again.

  ‘I’ve no idea who it is,’ replied Bergan. ‘But they’re no friends of the Wolf.’ He looked over his shoulder to Captain Fry who awaited orders.

  ‘Captain, I’m handing the Crow’s Nest to you. Respond to Leopold’s volleys with arrows of your own by all means. Don’t be cowed; give it back to him and then some. We still don’t know how this is going to play out. Duke Manfred, Baron Hector and I are going to the walls. If Count Vega arrives let him know where we are. Let’s see who dares scare the good folk of Westland out of their homes and villages.’

  Hector followed Bergan and Manfred up the stairs of Kingsgate, the main gate into Highcliff. Soldiers ran past them, armour clanging as they gave the Werelords a wide berth. Bergan almost filled the stairwell. Wearing his full armour he was even more imposing than usual. Hector moved a hand over his own armour, a modest leather breastplate that featured an inlaid boar’s head, its enormous tusks curving around his chest.

  Oh, don’t worry brother. You look every inch the warrior.

  He ignored the vile, shaking it off as he stepped on to the ramparts above the gatehouse. It was dusk and there was a spark in the air, as if the storm might unleash lightning at any moment. The last stragglers from the outlying farmlands were making their way through the gates. On the horizon he could make out masses of figures approaching at speed.

  ‘Horsemen,’ said Manfred. ‘From the Longridings? We never heard back from Lorimer, did we?’

  ‘It may well be the Horselords,’ agreed Bergan. ‘But I’d be surprised; Lorimer, after all, is an old friend. Would he really weigh in on the side of Leopold? What allies does Leopold have in Lyssia, but the Rats of Vermire!’

  Neither Hector nor Manfred had an answer to that.

  You don’t want to be here, Piggy. Death rides into Highcliff on steed and wave!

  ‘Might they be allies?’ asked Hector, trying to silence the voice at his shoulder.

  ‘Unlikely,’ said the Staglord. ‘Word has it they’ve laid waste to a number of farmsteads on their way here. And look at the timing – they’ve arrived just as the fleet is wiped out. No, this stinks of betrayal to me.’

  Bergan tugged at his beard, fingers twining between thick red whiskers.

  ‘You know, if they’ve followed the Great West Road then there’s a chance Mikkel spotted them. With luck he’s got word to Brackenholme, the Barebones and the Dalelands. All is not lost.’

  Hector nodded hopefully. The massed army drew closer. Soldiers shifted past to catch a better view, blocking his line of sight. He could hear the men gasping as the dust cloud cleared, revealing the enemy in all their glory. Hector shoved a soldier aside, something the Boarlord of old would never have dreamed of doing. The man turned angrily before seeing who it was, nodding by way of an apology. Hector stepped to the edge of the wall and looked to the east. His heart skipped a beat.

  The approaching army was thousands strong, outnumbering the force that guarded Highcliff. With three hundred from Brackenholme and five hundred of the fledgling Wolfguard; there weren’t even a thousand protecting the city, although they had the walls on their side. The soldiers looked nervous. Hector watched as they prayed to Brenn, kissing holy symbols that hung round their necks.

  See how they make promises to Brenn now, at the end? My brothers and I shall feast this night for all the good their false words do them! This battlefield will be a banquet for my kin!

  ‘Shut up!’ grunted Hector, catching the ear of Manfred.

  ‘They can’t help it, Hector. If a man can’t pray to Brenn on the eve of battle, when can he?’

  Hector smiled politely and looked back over the wall. There were over a thousand soldiers advancing across the fields, horsemen following behind. To the rear of the cavalry he could see great wheeled catapults being pulled by teams of horses. Hector looked down the walls of Highcliff to the intermittent towers, relieved to see they were manned with siege engines of their own, loaded and ready to send boulders back to the enemy.

  A roaring from the keep drew the attention of those on the walls. Leopold stood on the battlements of the ancient castle, straddling the crenellations, transforming monstrously for all the Wolf’s allies to see. Arrows flew up from Fry’s best archers, some hitting the target but doing little damage. His roar grew, deafening, shaking the spirit of everyone in Highcliff.

  ‘I told you we should have used the silver arrow,’ snapped Hector, cursing their missed opportunity. Bergan looked to him, his face stern.

  ‘It’s not our way, Hector. Don’t speak of the matter again.’

  Hector bowed apologetically, but he didn’t mean it. They’d lost their chance, and all on account of Bergan’s outdated moral code. It wasn’t Brenn’s way that forbade using silver. It was the Werelords’ way. But why allow your enemy to make use of the deadly metal and not use it to arm yourself?

  He’s scared of change, Hector. It’s too late, though. Tell the old fool his time’s up. He should take that arrow and plunge it into his own breast, end it quickly. Better still, you could do it! You’re getting good at it now, aren’t
you?

  ‘Never!’ said Hector angrily, getting an alarmed look from Bergan. He turned back to the advancing army. A lone rider broke from the ranks as they heard a commotion in the stairwell.

  ‘Out of my way!’ shouted Vega as he arrived on the tower battlements. He was dishevelled, his usually smart clothes torn and stained. His cape clung to his skin, soaking wet from the rain and sea. Vega strode straight up to his fellow Werelords, embracing them quickly. Hector was surprised by this rare show of emotion from him; Vega was ordinarily so aloof, such a peacock. Lastly the Pirate Prince hugged Hector, squeezing his shoulders as he looked deep into his eyes. The look that passed between them spoke volumes.

  ‘Are you all right, Hector?’

  The Boarlord nodded. This was the first he’d seen of the captain of the Maelstrom since the Shark and his shipmate had carted Vincent’s body away. Hector felt a shiver race down his spine, causing him to shudder involuntarily.

  What are you quaking for? It’s my grave he’s walking over!

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Bergan of the agitated sea marshal. Hector could see the Wereshark’s teeth were still sharp, as if he’d been part changed without returning fully to human form. Vega ran a hand through his wet hair, brushing the curling locks from his face.

  ‘An armada, bigger than any I’ve ever seen before. It sailed north up the Cold Coast, sending scouting vessels on ahead. We gave chase and before we knew it were engaged with them. The fleet didn’t stand a chance.’

  He shook his head, struggling to hide his anger. The rider from the advancing horde was closer now, one sole emissary being sent to the gates of Highcliff.

  ‘Can you send word to the Cluster Isles?’ asked Manfred. ‘They’re your people, surely they’d help?’

  ‘There isn’t the time to ready a fleet, even if they listened to me. You forget that the Cluster Isles are still under the jurisdiction of Leopold. The Kraken sits on my throne there.’

  ‘Where’s this armada from?’ asked Hector.

  That’s right brother. Cut to the chase. This is where it gets interesting.

  Vega’s face paled, defeat replaced by fear.

  ‘Bast.’

  Bergan and Manfred looked at one another, their faces mirroring Vega’s.

  ‘The Catlords?’ gasped Hector.

  Look at how scared they are now!

  Hector had read about Bast. It was where Leopold came from, a jungle continent across the Lyssian Straits. All manner of Werelords ruled the tropical forests and mountains of Bast, but none were more feared or fabled than the Catlords. Leopold was the one that Lyssia knew, but his cousins numbered many. If they were sailing to his aid then it was grave news for the whole of the Seven Realms.

  ‘It was the black flag of Onyx, Bergan.’

  ‘Who’s Onyx?’ Hector wanted to know, but was struggling to be heard.

  Manfred spoke over him to Vega.

  ‘Surely the Panther hasn’t come himself? He wouldn’t leave Bast, would he?’

  ‘We’ve turned on one of his kin. What do you …’

  Vega trailed off, looking past Manfred, Bergan and Hector as the horseman rode closer.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  The Werelords stood together on the gatehouse as the rider headed to the northernmost edge of the wall, staying at the limit of bowshot. He turned and galloped along the wall’s length, passing Mucklegate, heading towards Kingsgate. A chorus of gasps and cries rose from the wall, building like a wave as he rode by.

  ‘He’s dragging something,’ said Hector pointing.

  The rider had a rope attached to the rear of his saddle, trailing behind his horse. The other end was attached to what looked like a root ball from a felled tree, the roots spinning and bouncing on the hard ground as the warhorse thundered by.

  ‘More Bastians?’ asked Vega as the horseman neared, the cries from the walls louder now.

  Oh, no, whispered the vile in Hector’s ear. He could feel its ghostly hands stroking his throat, tickling his jaw, running claws over his lips. You’re going to love this …

  ‘What does he drag behind his mount?’ growled Bergan, his voice angry and fearful.

  As the horseman finally became clear to the four Werelords, Bergan instantly threw a hand out to steady Manfred. The rider was unmistakable; eight feet tall and clad in animal hide armour. A wolfskin cloak billowed behind him as he clutched the reins with one hand, his other holding a huge wickedly curved scimitar high over his canine head. A Doglord of Omir.

  The cries of the defenders were all around them now as they realized what the Omiri Werelord pulled along behind his warhorse. It wasn’t a root ball or anything else from a tree. They weren’t branches that spun, catching the ground and churning up puddles as the horse charged by. They were antlers.

  The rope was attached to the severed head of Earl Mikkel, Lord of Highwater.

  Manfred changed instantly, as did Bergan who struggled to hold the Stag back. Vega added his might to the Bearlord’s, taking the distraught duke’s other arm as he threatened to fling himself from the parapet. The Werestag’s scream drowned the cries on the wall as the Doglord brought his scimitar down, slashing the rope and leaving the head to tumble to a halt as he turned his horse and returned to his troops.

  Hector watched, dumbstruck and numb, as the voice rasped in his ear.

  Who said Cats and Dogs couldn’t play together?

  4

  Breakout

  The doors slammed shut, silencing the moans from within the courtroom of High Stable. The Wolf captured. Who would have believed it? And betrayed by the treacherous old Ram too. His step brisk, Sorin set off downstairs. He cringed as he glanced back, the two Lionguards who were posted at the door looked sickly and troubled. Better them than me, he figured. Last place I want to be is under Vankaskan’s feet when he’s got new toys to play with. People were always so hasty in regarding the Ratlord as insane. He was far from mad. Vankaskan was driven, totally dedicated to the craft of magistry, and in particular the dark arts. He was now free to indulge his passion, and he was enjoying himself.

  Sorin tugged the clasp of his dirty cloak round his throat, straightening his uniform as he exited the citadel. The soiled garment had seen better days, and Sorin found it an embarrassment that a sergeant of the Lionguard was forced to wear such a tarnished Redcloak. First thing in the morning he was going to get an order out to the nearest outfitter, have some new uniforms prepared for his men. Vankaskan had allowed Captain Colbard to recruit since they’d arrived, and they’d picked up a good number of ex-mercenaries who were more than willing to take the king’s crown. They had thirty men at their disposal in the citadel now, with twenty more marshalling the City Watch on the gates into the Cape Gala. Added to these were the hundred Bastian warriors who’d put the fear of Brenn into the Longridings. High Stable was beginning to feel like a foothold for the Wolf’s enemies. Sorin laughed to himself. The Wolf. How brief was the mongrel’s reign after such a promising fanfare?

  Stepping out of the tower he noticed that the Romari caravans were still present. Odd – they should have been turfed out by now, the temple having chimed two ages ago. His men were still gathered across the courtyard so he made his way over. There was no sign of the Romari and as he approached the soldiers he noticed that many of them were sleeping, slumped against one another. Some were woozily crawling, inebriated.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he yelled, causing some to stir. He dashed behind the caravans; nobody there, not even the dancing girls. A single slain Redcloak lay in the gravel, the deadly hole from a rapier thrust visible in the centre of his chest. Sorin ran back, his eyes widening with panic.

  ‘Get up, the lot of you!’ he screamed, kicking out indiscriminately as he made his way through them to the slumbering figure of Colbard, the broken-armed northman. He slapped the big captain and the grizzled warrior struggled to open his eyes. Inside the citadel they could now hear the clanging of steel.

  ‘We’re under att
ack!’

  The fight had begun on the ground floor. A Redcloak who’d been to the privy had opened the door to the sight of a hulking Romari cutting the throat of his fellow watchman at the tower’s back door. The Romari was fast, shooting the dagger from his wrist down the corridor where it landed squarely in the Redcloak’s stomach. But not before he’d screamed.

  Whitley slipped round Rolff as the mute giant dropped the dead Redcloak to the ground. She felt a hand at her shoulder propel her forward as Quist moved through the door behind her, ushering her on. Whitley held a dagger in her hand, not her choice of weapon. The scouts of the Woodland Watch were trained with bows and quarterstaffs for combat, but neither was appropriate for such confined spaces.

  ‘The stairs, Whitley,’ said the woman. ‘The third floor; that’s where the Horselord said the cells were.’

  ‘That’s where they’re keeping them,’ nodded Whitley, falling behind the ranger as she set off up the staircase that followed the wall of the citadel. Behind her came Rolff, then two Romari men and Stirga, the old sword-swallower, his rapier stained red from their encounter with the guard behind the caravans. The remainder of their party, led by Tristam and the fire-eater, Yuzhnik, advanced down the ground-floor corridor, hoping to secure the entrances and exits from the granite tower. Four of Lord Conrad’s Horseguard would meet Tristam at the front steps. Whitley prayed that they kept their end of the bargain.

  To her right Whitley caught sight of a landing on the first floor. One of the tanned foreign warriors saw them from down the corridor, already running their way having heard the scream downstairs. Behind him came two Redcloaks, swords drawn. Quist stepped off the stairs, pushing Whitley onwards with Rolff.

  ‘Go with the Romari! Find them!’

  With that Quist was gone. Whitley scrambled to keep up with Rolff, her heart beating nineteen to the dozen. The man behind kept a hand on her back, supporting her as she climbed.

  Ahead on the second floor Whitley saw Rolff dip into the corridor that branched off, leaping with another knife raised. His belt was lined with them, three still tucked into the leather. By the time Whitley reached the landing she saw Rolff rising from the floor, the body of a dead Bastian at his feet. The big Romari was leading the way again, pushing on as they approached the third floor.