Bergan squinted at the injured Manfred.
‘Thank you, old friend.’
‘Thank me later,’ wheezed the Stag, clearly in pain. He picked up his sword. ‘Come, we must defend the walls. We cannot let these monsters through.’
The two Werelords stepped up to the crumbling edge of the wall, readying their weapons as a fresh wave of Omiri advanced.
Count Vega pushed his way through the soldiers, his companions on his heels. Just ahead he could see Kingsgate, where the fiercest fighting took place. The gatehouse had been bombarded by the Omiri catapults, the southern tower was a pile of rubble, while the north still stood. He caught sight of the Bear and the Stag on the roof, surrounded by savage warriors armed with spears and scimitars. He grabbed the nearest officer, the soldier blanching when he saw the partially transformed face of the Sharklord, dead black eyes and razor-sharp teeth inches from his face.
‘What on Sosha’s ocean are those two doing up there?’
‘Holding the wall, sire!’
‘Look around you, man, the wall is broken!The battle is lost! Why has nobody informed them?’
‘I have, repeatedly!’ yelled the soldier. ‘My lord, I must return to the line, I’m sorry!’ And with that the officer rejoined his men as they struggled against the onslaught.
‘Stubborn Bear,’ grumbled Vega, turning to the men who followed. ‘Come on!’
Vega ran forward, his cutlass flashing and finding a target with each flash. His cape was gone, lost in the battle, and his white shirt was torn to the waist. Reaching the stairwell beyond the barricade he took four steps at a time, swiftly arriving on the battle-ravaged wall.
There stood Bergan and Manfred, weapons swinging wildly, tearing at the Omiri with tooth, claw and blade. They were swamped. Vega skewered two warriors with one thrust, flinging them from his blade like dead bugs. His mouth bit down, taking an arm and a leg off another warrior before flinging the fresh corpse into its companions. The balance of the fight shifted dramatically.
Within moments the tower was clear of Omiri, the two older members of the Wolf’s Council struggling to catch their breath. Bergan managed a nod of thanks to Vega, his face red with gore.
‘Are you here to fight by our side?’
‘No, I’m here to drag you away!’
‘Never!’ bellowed Manfred, staggering as an arrow hit home in his back alongside five others.
Vega put a hand on Manfred’s shoulder, looking him in the eyes while the battle raged around and below them.
‘Manfred, it’s over. Brothers, can you not see? The city is fallen.’
The Stag and Bear blinked, looking around. The walls were overrun along their length, pockets of fighting now spilling into the city proper. The fires raged out of control at their backs, as the forces of Omir surged through the broken gates. They were overwhelmed.
‘But, Mikkel …’ began the Staglord, cut short by the Shark.
‘Can be avenged another day. Come, we must move.’
Bergan noticed the three men at the head of the stairwell. Two were members of the Wolfguard, but the third was a prisoner, hands and throat bound by manacles and chains. His bald head bore the recognizable pattern of a sea serpent, filling the right side of his face.
‘Carver,’ said Bergan.
‘I had to bring him. He can get the people out of here.’ The Sharklord pointed out to the bay. ‘The fleet draws close, they’ll be here within the hour.’
Bergan stepped up to the Lord of the Thieves Guild who lifted his jaw defiantly.
‘I have your word you’ll serve us and the people of Highcliff?’
‘You have my word I’ll serve you until we emerge from the other side of those tunnels, Lord Protector. After that it’s every man for himself.’ He held his manacles up, tugging the chains taut.
‘I don’t have the keys,’ said Vega suddenly, realizing his mistake. Before anyone could respond the chains were shattered, tiny pieces of twisted metal scattering along the tower top as Bergan’s axe bit into the stone roof.
‘You’re pardoned, Carver. Don’t make me regret this.’
Carver grinned, snatching up a fallen Omiri scimitar.
‘Come, we have to move fast. There are three entrances to the catacombs: beneath Brenn’s Temple in the Tall Quarter, the old fishmarket in the Low Quarter and the Garden of the Dead at the bottom of Lofty Lane.’
‘The cemetery?’ asked Manfred. Carver nodded, leading them back down the stairwell, scimitar raised warily before him.
‘I need to get the word out, don’t know how many of my people have remained in the city, but if we’re quick we can coordinate an evacuation. My lord, I may need to steal some of your men.’
‘They can’t be spared,’ said Bergan. ‘Haven’t you noticed they’re busy?’
Carver smiled as they arrived at the base of the guardhouse, entering the melee once more. The Omiri withdrew at the sight of changed therians, but only briefly; Vega could see over their heads that there were thousands, their injured replaced by fresh warriors. He looked at the soldiers of Highcliff, a battered army of the walking wounded. Where were their reinforcements?
As the Wolf’s Council retreated Vega caught sight of a carriage hurtling up the street towards them. It was an ancient carriage of state, its faded red timber having seen better days. Two men sat on the driver’s bench, one short, one tall, cracking the whip as they urged the horses onwards. Vega stood back as the carriage bumped to a halt and Hector, Baron of Redmire, opened a door.
‘Get in! Hurry, my lords,’ said the magister. ‘Leopold lowers the drawbridge. I fear he and the Lionguard mean to join the battle.’
‘I’ll be waiting for him if he does,’ snarled Bergan, his body returning to human proportions as he clambered in. Manfred directed his attending knights back to Buck House.
‘See to Queen Amelie, have her prepare to leave at once!’
‘Are you getting in?’ asked Hector. Vega shook his head.
‘No, I think Carver needs assistance, thanks all the same.’
Hector nodded and disappeared into the carriage, banging the roof to signal the drivers to ride on. Vega and the thief lord stood back as the carriage turned in the road, the battle of Kingsgate still raging at their backs. The Sharklord was astonished to recognize the two men who drove the carriage as the henchmen of Vincent, Ringlin and Ibal.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Carver.
‘I’m surprised to see the company a Werelord is keeping.’
‘You’re one to talk. Come, we have business to attend to and quickly.’
Vega watched as the vehicle raced back towards the Crow’s Nest, its drivers staring back as they passed. The tall one saluted the captain of the Maelstrom as the fat one giggled and the carriage was gone.
6
The Ratlord’s Brood
The familiar smell of burning Spyr Oil woke Drew from his unnatural slumber. His face was slick with blood; his own. He raised a hand to his mouth, feeling for a wound but finding nothing. His fingers traced round his jaw, ear and beyond, finally discovering the matted lump of hair at the back of his head. The skin beneath had already healed, but the headache remained. The last thing he remembered was speaking with Baron Ewan and then … nothing. He winced as he rose from where he lay.
Another scent, hidden behind the Spyr Oil’s aroma, was the sweet smell of decay. He felt the cool touch of steel against his left hand, a manacle keeping him chained to the wall. The linked length was forgiving, having allowed him to lie on the floor, but he was a prisoner nonetheless. He clenched his chained fist, Wergar’s ring straining against the knuckles. Drew’s eyes and ears slowly adjusted to his surroundings. He was in the courtroom of High Stable.
He could hear the sounds of battle, the ringing of steel and rattle of swords echoing all around. The wall he stood against was at the top of a flight of curving steps that ran round the chamber, smoke and darkness obscuring the far side. He tried to get his bearings. There had been
a balcony in the courtroom, overlooking the city. He looked behind, finding a wall of heavy blood-spattered drapes, alive with flies and their twitching grubs. The blood gathered on the floor, spreading out over the granite steps all around. How many had died here?
The moaning suddenly caught his attention. It was a low murmur, slowly becoming more insistent.
‘Who’s there?’ said Drew, trying to see down the steps in the darkness. More moaning, responding in a chorus. More than one?
‘Who is it?’ He yanked at the chain, testing its strength. There were only two ways he’d be free of the manacle; with a key or by leaving his hand behind.
‘You’re awake.’
Drew recognized the rasping voice immediately, his mind racing back to a journey through the Dyrewood in the Ratlord’s torture wagon.
‘Vankaskan. Lucas let you off your leash?’
The Wererat didn’t answer, setting Drew’s nerves further on edge. He tugged at the chain again.
‘If you were going to kill me you could have done it while I slept!’
‘That would have been no fun. I’d be denying Wergar’s offspring the death he deserves …’
‘You’re keeping me alive for a reason. You’ve been commanded to by Lucas, haven’t you?’
Drew’s voice lacked conviction. A fresh wave of moans rose in the dark. He could see dark shapes now, moving through the Spyr smoke below. He coughed and spluttered, the foul smells overpowering.
‘You put too much faith in your importance, boy. As for me following commands, I’ve never responded well to orders. You should know you’re mine, Wolf. Mine to do with as I like.’
Drew heard the grin in Vankaskan’s voice.
‘Show yourself then!’ barked Drew, trying to remain in control. If the Wolf appeared he’d lose his manacled hand, something that didn’t bear thinking about.
‘All in good time. How’s Hector?’
‘Safe, far away from you and your vile teachings, that’s for sure.’
‘The seed is planted, Wolf. You cannot halt nature.’
Drew’s feet slipped on the bloody floor. The chain jangled as he tried to stay upright. Again he saw the silhouettes below. Were they coming closer?
‘Who’s down there with you?’
‘Down here? Oh, some of your friends, Drew. Would you like to see them?’
Drew heaved, the smell of death growing heavier. A fat bluebottle landed on his lip, threatening to disappear into his mouth. He spluttered and flicked it away. Below, in the dark, he heard the Rat whispering something; rapid, arcane words of magick.
‘What’s going on?’ said Drew, yanking nervously at the chain again. Outside he could hear the shouts and screams of battle; what he’d give to have the Wolfshead blade in his hand. His attention suddenly focused through the smoke ahead.
A figure was crawling up the steps towards him, one stair at a time. It was heading straight for Drew through the darkness. Two dimly glowing blue eyes were fixed on him as it approached. Drew prayed it wasn’t someone he knew. Whitley’s injury at the hands of the risen Lionguard loomed large in his mind, the smell of the dead all too familiar. He’d known all along that the cursed soul was Vankaskan’s handiwork. He’s done it in High Stable now?
‘Call it back, Vankaskan!’
He could hear the Wererat chuckling now.
‘Go on, child. Go see your friend. Embrace him …’
The figure was eight feet away when Drew recognized it. Had it only been a few days since he’d last seen him? The skin was yellowed and pale, its jaw dark with a foul black liquid that pooled in its throat. It still had the frame of the Werelord, but it was now a mockery of the man it had been in life, a puppet for the Rat to play with; an abomination.
The body of Broghan raised a hand, straining to get to Drew. As it loomed closer, drawing itself upright, Drew could see the open wound in its chest.
‘Oh, Brenn,’ sobbed Drew, backing up to the wall. The dead Bearlord was a couple of paces from him now. Drew kicked the grasping hands away.
‘Please, Broghan, don’t!’
‘You’ll have to speak up,’ laughed Vankaskan. ‘His hearing’s not what it used to be!’
The risen Bearlord opened its jaws, its pale blue eyes widening as its teeth clacked together expectantly – hungry. Drew brought his foot back.
‘Forgive me, Broghan,’ he whispered and struck out. The dead Bearlord’s head snapped back and the body tumbled down the steps, crunching all the way down. Drew cried, shoulders shaking as the full extent of his predicament dawned on him. All the while Vankaskan laughed, breaking down into prolonged wheezes.
‘You’re insane!’ shouted Drew. ‘This is madness!’
‘This is progress!’ yelled the necromancer. ‘Death shall no longer be the end. The dead shall walk the earth, that’s what the prophecy says. And we all have a part to play. Me, commanding; and you, Werewolf, joining them. Can you imagine it? An army of the dead, with risen Werelords leading them into battle?’
‘It’s blasphemy!’
Drew saw a shape run up the steps, shaking off its robes, drawing the beast forth. By the time he landed at the top of the steps Vankaskan was fully changed, his clawed hand flying out and taking Drew round the throat. The Wererat was monstrous, long pink tail whipping about as he screeched into Drew’s face. Drew felt stinking hot saliva spatter his face. He wanted to look away but the monster held his face inches from his slavering jaws.
‘And I thought the dead smelled bad!’ managed Drew. The Rat tightened his grip, instantly cutting off Drew’s air supply.
‘Always so smart with the mouth. Your father was the same, Wolf. What good did it do him?’
The courtroom door opened suddenly, light spilling into the great chamber as two figures rushed in. The beast slackened his grip, turning quickly to see what the commotion was. Great whirls of Spyr smoke disappeared through the open door in a gust, the drapes on the balcony suddenly flapping in the breeze revealing the night sky beyond. Full moon. Drew looked away, struggling to regain his breath.
‘What is it?’ screamed Vankaskan, furious at the interruption. Drew recognized Sorin and the big northman whose arm he’d broken. They both had their weapons drawn and looked around the dark courtroom for their master.
‘We’re under attack, my lord!’ yelled the bearded northman, an axe in his good hand.
‘Where are you, Vankaskan?’ shouted Sorin. He took a step forward and pulled back immediately, a hand lunging at him from the gloom.
‘Be careful,’ spat the Wererat, his voice panicked. ‘My children! They’re down there!’
Drew moved fast, the distraction all he needed. He whipped the chain over the huge head of Vankaskan, as if he was lassoing a bullock on the farm. Then he threw himself past the beast, seeing the chain tighten with his body weight like a slipknot round the Rat’s throat. Instantly Vankaskan was scrambling, huge arms reaching for his throat and trying to grip the links, but the thick oily pelt of his therian form prevented him from reaching the chain. Instead he tore at the fur, blood and flesh coming away in strips.
Sorin and Colbard had seen them now. They moved fast, skirting the walking dead and running up the stairs. The Rat’s legs kicked and scrabbled against the bloody floor, his tail lashing out as the Lionguard arrived. Sorin saw the tail at the last minute, dodging clear, but Colbard wasn’t so lucky, as the captain’s legs were taken from under him in a sweeping slash. He toppled into the chamber, head first, landing on the second set of steps down. There was a crunch and a scream as he rolled over in agony, his other arm now broken at the elbow.
Drew saw the sword in Sorin’s hand. The Wolfshead blade! Sorin kept his distance, resisting rushing in after seeing the fate that had befallen his friend. Below, Drew noticed some of the corpses moving through the open doorway. The bucking of the Wererat focused his attention. Unable to reach Drew, the Rat began to revert to human form, the only chance he had to reach the chain. By then it was too late.
; Vankaskan’s throat was ragged from his own claws, the bib of blood spreading down his gnarled, wizened torso and pooling in his groin. Drew jumped off the top step out into the chamber, feeling the chain go taut, the manacle jarring at the wrist. He heard something bounce down the steps as the headless body of Vankaskan toppled over.
The drapes were flapping now, the wind blowing through the courtroom. A couple of the dead had already disappeared into the galleried corridor, greeted by screams. But the others advanced up the steps towards the combatants.
Sorin moved fast, not giving Drew a chance to catch his breath. Sorin lashed out with the sword, forcing Drew off the top step and down one. The links went taut again. Drew strained out of reach of the swordsman, trying to draw him to his level. He glanced down, catching sight of the approaching monsters, blue flames flickering in their eyes. Duke Lorimer was nearest, the dead Horselord’s blank expression ghostly in the gloom. Behind it he caught sight of other dead Werelords in their stained cream robes as they scrambled closer. There were a dozen of them. And there was poor Broghan’s corpse in their midst, its neck broken at an impossible angle.
The Wolfshead blade. If Drew could disarm Sorin and get the blade, he might be able to shatter the chains. Draw him in close, feign weakness. Another leap and he’d be past the man’s reach and on top of him. Hang back, draw him in, jump him.
Drew felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time; hope.
He watched Sorin advance. And then stop. The wily rogue looked at Drew as if reading his thoughts and then stared at the mob of advancing dead. Colbard was scrambling to his knees, bouncing off his broken arms as he tried to avoid the hungry corpses. The dead closed round the northman, biting and clawing at him, pulling him down as they tore into him. Colbard’s high-pitched scream echoed round the courtroom before ceasing suddenly. Sorin grimaced at the demise of his friend.
He began to back away. Drew could see his chance evaporating before his eyes. He needed the sword! He leapt, dashing up to the top step on the straining chain and lashing out at the man, but he was too late. Sorin was out of range.
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