They emerged on to the third floor into the midst of a battle. There were maybe thirty well-armed Bastian warriors, carrying round buckler shields, short spears and swords. Five Redcloaks fought alongside them as they surrounded a dozen of High Stable’s remaining Horseguard at the far side of the large guardroom. These Longridings men were struggling to stand their ground at the head of the main staircase. Swords and spears clashed as they were pushed back. This central floor was clearly the military heart of the citadel, with bunks lining the walls, anterooms for captains and even a door grille into a cell block. Two Redcloaks guarded the iron door, ready to join the fray if needed. One shouted an alarm as Whitley and her companions appeared from the servants’ stairwell.
Rolff had a knife in each hand as eight Bastians pulled away from the main group, rushing the invaders. The Romari kicked a large table into them, causing them to break over and round it, losing their shape. He darted to the left of it, slashing and jabbing at the two who came round the side, as the Romari men and Stirga came forward in front of Whitley, daggers and rapier flashing. One of the warriors who dared to climb over the table got the sword-swallower’s blade clean through the neck. Whitley stood still, not quite knowing what to do.
A Romari went down with a Bastian on top, his sword coming down in savage motions. His brother dived into him, bowling him off his feet as the Bastians waded in. Stirga leapt to their aid and suddenly Whitley was alone.
A gut feeling told her to move, and not a moment too soon, as a Bastian sword cut through the air where her head had been seconds before. She raised her blade as her attacker followed up the blow with another slash, knocking the dagger from her grasp and sending it flying. Whitley skidded round the table, ducking behind chairs as the warrior advanced, cutting her off from the rest of her party. The chainshirted fighter was shepherding her towards the Redcloaks at the door. They watched, waiting for the Bastian to make the kill.
Whitley’s eyes searched for a weapon. A couple of swords hung from brackets just out of reach. She staggered into a stack of shields that tumbled around her, the warrior kicking them aside. Whitley scrambled back, knocking over stools and chairs, but the net was closing. She backed towards the corner of the room where spears and javelins stood stacked. The Bastian stepped on to a chair, propelling himself into the air and raising his sword high as he leapt down to deliver the killing blow. It was at this precise moment that the scout’s back collided with the wall of spears, sending them clattering forward from their rack.
The warrior’s sword never reached its intended mark, as an array of spears pierced the man through numerous points of his body as he landed on the projecting points, pinning Whitley beneath him. Beyond Whitley saw the guards from the iron doorway advancing, their companions all engaged with the Romari and Horseguard.
‘Rolff!’ she screamed, but her cry fell on deaf ears. The big Romari had his own problems, swamped and surrounded by the mob. The Redcloaks were wary now, having seen the Bastian butchered by a clutch of spears. Whitley struggled, unable to manoeuvre out from beneath the dead warrior.
‘Please!’ she cried, her voice rising in pitch. Her fingers scrambled for the Bastian’s weapon on the floor. It was a short thrusting sword with a steel cup covering the hilt, perfect for close combat. She found the handle, pulling it along the flags, closing her fingers round the hilt.
The first Redcloak was about to pull the dead warrior to one side, ready to stab down. Whitley was ahead of him, though. The minute she felt the Lionguard tug the corpse, Whitley swung her arm out from below, ripping the shortsword through the air at his leg. She heard a wet ssssnikt sound as the blade tore through his hamstring, sending him toppling in agony.
The second soldier was less foolish, kicking the dead Bastian aside and drawing his sword back to strike. Instinct took over for Whitley, the Bear within leaping to her defence. She brought her legs back to kick out at the body of the speared soldier. With unnatural strength she launched her feet into the corpse’s midriff, roaring as she kicked, sending the body and spears flying back over the Redcloak. By the time the soldier had struggled to his feet he was facing an armed Whitley, a spear in her hands, the head broken from the shaft.
The Redcloak grinned, fancying his odds; his sword against an urchin with a broken spear. It didn’t occur to him for a moment that he was facing a trained scout of the Woodland Watch. Whitley grimaced back, turning the makeshift staff in her hands. The man raised his sword and brought it down fast. If he was expecting her to swing her weapon defensively to meet his blow, he was mistaken. Instead Whitley jumped at him, lightning fast, jabbing the staff forward with all her weight. The man took the brunt of the blow to his head, the splintered wood shattering his features. As he dropped his sword and brought his hands up to his broken face Whitley expertly swung the staff round her head, bringing the pole arcing round to strike him across the temple with a skull splitting crack. He went down instantly.
Before she could regain her breath, Stirga was at her side, the old Romari rifling through the guard’s pockets searching for keys, but he found none. He held his hand out to Whitley.
‘Haste, now! We must free your friends!’
The battle raged on the far side of the chamber. Nobody had noticed Whitley and Stirga, the intense combat providing enough distraction for them to carry out their task. Two Romari men lay on the floor, the contest having proved deadly for them. Whitley noticed Rolff rising from the floor at the back of the room from a pile of bodies. His gore-slicked chest and arms were scored by a dozen sword wounds but he was still standing. He stalked grimly over to them.
Whitley rattled the grilled door to the cell block.
‘Locked. Don’t suppose you can rip it from its brackets, Rolff?’
Rolff looked and sneered. Both door and frame were solid iron: no mortal could tear it loose.
‘Here, let me,’ said Stirga, pushing between them to inspect the mechanism. His hands went to a pouch at his hip, pulling out a couple of thin wire tools and blades. He slid them into the lock and started working at them. Whitley watched, impressed.
Rolff tapped Whitley on the shoulder, gesturing towards the fight on the landing. The Horseguard had been whittled away, with only four left standing, each of them badly bloodied. Around twenty of the Bastians remained, half of them closing in on the Horseguard while the others turned their attention to Whitley and the two Romari. Rolff stepped forward to buy them time.
Before he could join battle there was a thunderous noise on the main staircase, a clattering, banging crescendo of noise that grew and grew. The Horseguard surged forward, weapons rising as they faced their enemy with fresh confidence. Now the Bastians pulled back as they saw what raced up the staircase towards them.
Four Werestallions vaulted the remaining steps, fully transformed in all their glory. They were led by a blond-maned Horselord, snorting with fury and frothing at the mouth. He swung a greatsword in one hand, taking two of the Bastians’ heads off their shoulders. He kicked out, his huge hoofed foot shattering the ribcage of another warrior who stood too close. Letting loose a war-cry he crashed into the Bastians, his stallion brothers joining him.
‘That should buy you time, Stirga,’ whispered Whitley.
The old Romari completed the lockpicking, and the grilled door swung open. A corridor that housed ten cells was beyond, each one locked by a steel bar across its wooden door. Hurriedly the three of them went down the passage, drawing back the bars and swinging doors wide. In each they found enemies of Vankaskan. Beaten Horselords and their wives and children shared cells with the Horseguards who’d survived the Ratlord’s wrath.
Rolff pushed past Stirga as he made his way to the last cell in the corridor, snatching at the bar and yanking it back with a clang. He kicked the door open and stepped inside, Whitley right behind the mute giant. Her eyes lit up when she saw Gretchen, dashing across the room to where the red-haired young woman hung chained to the wall.
‘Oh, Gretchen, you poor thi
ng!’ She looked up at Rolff and Stirga. ‘Get these chains off her, please!’
Stirga moved quickly, setting to work on the manacles with his lockpick. Another figure, that of a man, hung from the wall opposite. Whitley hugged Gretchen as she tumbled into her arms. Rolff strode up to the male prisoner as Lord Conrad appeared in the doorway, now part changed and more human in appearance, although his face was still equine. He bowed towards Whitley, dropping his head low.
Whitley saw Rolff grab the other prisoner by his hair, lifting his head up warily, his dagger in his other hand.
It wasn’t the Wolf. It was Captain Harker, Drew’s friend. The man spluttered, squinting through puffed and blackened eyes. Rolff turned round as if looking for an explanation.
‘If you’re looking for the Wolf, he isn’t here,’ snorted Conrad. ‘Vankaskan has him imprisoned in the courtroom. Others too. Brenn knows if we’ve time to save any of them! The evil, my lady; you cannot imagine!’
Whitley held Gretchen close as Stirga immediately set to work freeing Harker from his bonds.
‘Try me,’ gasped Whitley, squeezing Gretchen tight as the other slowly opened her eyes. ‘Take us to Drew.’
5
City on Fire
‘Incoming!’
The soldiers on the wall dived for cover at the Bearlord’s warning cry, two members of the City Watch struggling to hide behind a raised stone parapet. Their choice of shelter was unfortunate. The boulder from the Omiri catapult hit the ramparts, shattering the defences and sending rock and crushed soldiers tumbling into the Tall Quarter. The walkway was reduced to rubble, other soldiers struggling to maintain their balance as the ancient wall crumbled beneath their feet. One unfortunate fellow tumbled over the outer side, landing amidst a crowd of wild Omiri, their scimitars slashing down in rapid succession.
Duke Bergan ran along the wall, roaring as he went, swinging his battle axe over the ramparts and sending the eastern warriors skittering with each blow. More frequently now the Doglord’s men were finding footholds along the wall, their catapults hitting their targets with increasing success. Bergan scanned the wall, dismayed to see fighting breaking out where the Omiri had scaled it. With ladders and grappling hooks flying up everywhere, it felt like they were putting out a forest fire with one leaking bucket.
And the Tall Quarter was literally aflame, civilians trying to put out the fires in the streets. For once Bergan was grateful for the rain, the only thing helping them on this terrible night. He looked towards the keep. Captain Fry had been ill-prepared for the ferocity with which the Lionguard had attacked: bolts, arrows, balls of flaming pitch were being launched into their midst. This was the Lion’s last throw of the dice, and he gambled everything.
‘Manfred! Stay where you are!’
He could see that the Staglord was separated from his personal guard, four soldiers in shining steel bearing the raised pattern of a pair of antlers on their breastplates, the last men of the Barebones in Highcliff. A well placed boulder had removed the wall between them and their liege. A troop of lightly armoured Omiri had clambered up the rubble, positioning themselves between the Staglord and his protectors. The four knights waded in, swords smashing down and crushing the enemy, limbs splintering with each swing, but they couldn’t get to Manfred.
Manfred faced off four warriors on the ramparts of what remained of Kingsgate. Below, allied soldiers struggled to hold back the wave of Omiri that was funnelling through the broken gates. Bergan realized there was no getting through the melee on the wall and instead jumped into the Tall Quarter. Three soldiers of Brackenholme followed him, not an official bodyguard like Manfred’s, but men who’d lay down their lives in the defence of Bergan nonetheless.
The Werebear ran towards the rear of his men as they were forced back, the enemy wedging itself in the shattered Kingsgate like a barbed thorn, immovable. Bergan’s eyes fell on a two-wheeled hay wagon that had been pushed off the road. He threw his axe to one of his men, the poor fellow almost tumbling over with its weight. The Bearlord grabbed the cart, lifting it on to his chest, heaving it once more until it was above his head. He roared before throwing the wagon into the enemy ranks.
They toppled like skittles, knocked over, crushed, slaughtered by the splintering cart. Bergan snatched his axe back and with one bound leapt over his men, landing on the broken timber of the hay wagon. Axe, claws and teeth flew, shredding the Omiri about him into a red mist. His men surged forward, making up lost ground and using the shattered cart as a makeshift barricade. Other defences were brought forward; the broken gates, barrels, crates, even doors from houses.
‘To me!’ he roared as his soldiers found new hope. The morale of the attackers had wavered and the men of Highcliff pushed their advantage, causing the enemy to fall over one another. Bergan looked past the battle on the ground now, making for the crumbling gatehouse. He saw antlers tear into one of the warriors as Manfred fought above. The man’s body was flung like a ragdoll, but another took his place.
Bergan leapt over the barricade and trampled the Omiri underfoot as he ran to the gatehouse doorway. He ignored the scimitars and arrows, intent upon getting to his injured friend. The stairwell was a squeeze as the Werebear muscled his way up, his battleaxe drawing sparks as it bounced against brickwork. He emerged on the roof to find Manfred almost overwhelmed.
His armour lay in pieces, scimitar blows having hacked the straps to ribbons. His body was covered in wounds, both fresh and old. An antler was badly broken, lying severed on the floor, and his left arm hung limp at his side. The weapons weren’t silver, but they were plentiful. The Omiri stopped their onslaught to regard the Bear, as the Stag wobbled unsteadily.
Bergan jumped forward, dragging his brother Werelord back, facing the attackers in his place. He held the enormous axe by its long carved handle, levelling the double-headed blade at the assembled Omiri. As one they backed off, refusing to engage.
‘Fight me!’
The men looked over the edge of the wall, making room on the top of the gatehouse. Something approached. Something big. Bergan shifted the axe in his hands, readying himself for the forthcoming fight. A huge shape emerged over the side of the broken ramparts. In one giant, tanned hand he held a heavy scimitar. On his other arm he carried a sheet of metal, five feet high and hammered into the shape of a crude shield. The lowest edge looked razor sharp, and was stained red. The snarling Dog’s head bore a mouthful of hellish teeth, canines bared as the beast prepared for battle.
‘Bergan of Brackenholme,’ the Doglord snarled. ‘Fat old bear, you should have stayed in your treehouse.’
‘Who are you?’ said Bergan, ignoring the taunt. The two circled one another, weapons raised.
‘I should gift you my name at the end? Before I kill you?’
‘Stop being dramatic, Dog! Speak or shut up and fight!’ This came from Manfred, crouched wheezing against the rubble of the stairwell. The Dog glared at Manfred before bringing his hateful gaze back on to Bergan.
‘I am Canis, son of Canan, Prince of Omir.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Bergan, turning to Manfred. ‘You?’
Manfred shook his head.
‘My father is the rightful King of Omir, you greenlander scum!’
‘Oh, there are lots of rightful kings floating around lately, Canis. Try to keep up!’
‘Quiet, Bear! I’ll make your tree my first port of call once this battle is over. See how your people like Omiri steel!’
That was enough for Bergan. The Werehound’s words had hardly left his lips when Bergan flung his axe forward, letting its head tear into the Doglord’s massive torso. Canis collapsed as Bergan moved in, a claw tearing the Dog from his chest to his jaw. The Omiri Werelord staggered back, bringing his shield up to block any following blow. Bergan held back to see what damage he’d done, suspecting he’d opened the beast’s belly. The full moon shone down as a smiling Dog’s head emerged from behind his metal shield, jaw in tatters where the Bear had connected. Bergan sma
cked his lips, huffing anxiously, and prepared himself for the onslaught.
Bergan was one of the most powerful Werelords to grace a Lyssian battlefield, but he was old. Canis was fast, his scimitar flying out once, twice, three times, slicing at last across Bergan’s breast. The Bearlord stumbled back, almost colliding with Manfred, before hitting the Doglord in the jaw with the flat of his axe. The Bear opened his jaws and clasped them round the Dog’s throat, biting deep and feeling the blood burst free. Canis dropped his scimitar and fought back, raking his hands into the Bearlord’s face, pressing his claws into his eyes. Bergan clamped them shut, screaming as he let go, momentarily blinded by the Werehound’s attack.
The Werebear staggered around the battlements, blinded, the Omiri slashing at him as he whirled past them. Canis picked up his scimitar, loudly barking for all to see and hear. There was a lull in the battle below as the combatants drew back to see the final blow. Bergan cursed; blinded at the last, not even seeing the deathblow come. Canis raised the scimitar overhead.
‘For you, Father! For Canan and the glory of Omir!’
Suddenly Canis was choking for air, a pain in his chest as he struggled to breathe. Blood bubbled at his lips. Four sharp, black blades protruded from his torso, the broken antler driven deeply into his back. Duke Manfred stood at his shoulder as lightning flashed overhead and thunder instantly followed.
‘You talk too much,’ said the Lord of Stormdale, as he propelled his body forward off the battlements.
Bergan’s eyesight was clearing and the surrounding Omiri’s initiative was lost. He roared, jumping forward to where he thought they were. The men toppled off the wall, tumbling into the air rather than face the Werebear.
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