Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘The sword, Sorin! For Brenn’s sake! Throw me the sword!’

  Sorin looked at the Wolfshead blade for a moment, then the dead. He looked at Drew. He slid the sword back into its sheath.

  ‘Say hello to your father from me,’ he shouted, running from the chamber. The dead watched him go and then turned back to Drew. And advanced.

  Drew yanked on the chain futilely, his mind racing with blind panic. Some of the monsters had already started feasting on their dead master, tearing Vankaskan’s body to pieces below him. That was Drew’s fate. He was going to die like the Rat, devoured by the dead. He shook the chain again, cursing the manacle. He hadn’t travelled across Lyssia to die like some poor animal trapped in a snare. Lose a life …

  … or lose a hand?

  Drew stared up at the moon and let in the Wolf completely. The transformation was fast, racing through his body and giving him new life and energy. The sudden pain in his wrist demanded his attention. His lupine eyes focused, the change continuing as his arm and hand enlarged round the manacle. He could feel bones breaking inside the iron bracelet and tried to banish the pain. When the change was complete he assessed his wrist once more, expecting the hand to have come away.

  It was still there, swollen, throbbing, covered in blood. But the hand remained connected to his arm, manacle in place.

  The dead had reached the top step now, gathering round him and recognizing the Werewolf as a threat, even with their decaying minds. Drew roared, kicking out at them and slashing with his free arm. Some of them stumbled back but others remained standing, moaning hungrily, looking for a way to the injured Wolf.

  Drew’s mind was on fire. Why was it never easy? He snapped his jaws at the dead.

  His jaws.

  The Werewolf ran his tongue over his deadly teeth. Quickly his jaws clamped round his hand, biting down hard and worrying it loose. The pain was blinding, but he wouldn’t be halted. Drew ripped through the bone, pulling his hand away and spitting it out. He heard the chain and manacle clatter to the ground, free at last.

  The dizziness hit him like a tidal wave as his arm bled freely. He collapsed on to the floor, trying to channel his healing therianthropy and stop the blood loss. He felt fingers on him, tugging. He looked up and saw a familiar face. Broghan? What are you doing here? Broghan was trying to embrace him, his neck twisted, broken? His mouth was open, black liquid pooling …

  Drew struggled to remain conscious. He rolled, allowing dead Broghan to land face down on the filthy granite as the other dead arrived. With a silent prayer to Brenn he brought his clawed right hand round and drove the dead Werelord’s head into the stone. It stopped moving instantly. Drew scrambled back, tucking his severed wrist into his belly, backing into the drapes as they tumbled around him. He was shifting again, back into the man and away from the Wolf. The cool night air greeted him as he struggled on to the balcony, the dead rising about his feet. He looked to the courtyard five storeys below.

  A group ran into the courtroom, Gretchen leading the way with Whitley at her side. The two girls screamed Drew’s name. He couldn’t find his voice as he stumbled back to the balcony. One of Whitley’s companions, a tall leathery skinned fellow who carried knives, pointed up the chamber towards him. They hurried, slashing and stabbing at the dead as they came. There was Harker, longsword in his hand, fighting alongside an old man with a rapier. And there were others, transformed, therians like him and Whitley. The Horselords? They ran into the chamber, cutting down the dead, trying to get to Drew before the corpses did.

  Drew staggered, desperate to embrace his friends, so near yet so far. The dead crowded round, pushing him back.

  At the last, when he thought he might fall, he felt strong talons grasp him, digging into his shoulder blades like knives, lifting him off the ground. Am I dead? Is this one of Brenn’s angels, carrying me away to meet the maker?

  In seconds he was flying, the dead on the balcony grasping at thin air as he was hoisted into the star strewn sky above Cape Gala. He watched High Stable swiftly disappearing behind him as he struggled to stay awake. His head lolled, eyelids heavy, as he tried to understand what was happening. He saw great wings beating, he saw the sea rushing by, the moon reflected off its rippling surface. And he heard a woman’s voice before he was swallowed by the night.

  ‘Sleep, Wolf. You’re safe … for now …’

  7

  The Lion Unchained

  The carriage rocked, perilously close to toppling over as the crowd buffeted it. Lofty Lane was heaving, people struggling to reach the Garden of the Dead, Highcliff’s ancient cemetery. Hector hung out of the window to assess the situation, quickly realizing it was impossible. Towards the cliffs the road was thick with panicked townsfolk, fighting to get through the gates to the graveyard. Men of the Thieves Guild shouted them on, urging them towards the garden and the tunnels that awaited them. Ringlin peered down at Hector, shaking his head, as Ibal cracked the whip over the heads of the crowd to no effect. They were going nowhere. Hector collapsed beside Duke Manfred, opposite Queen Amelie and Bethwyn, her lady-in-waiting.

  ‘It’s no good, Your Majesty. The streets are choked. We can go no further.’

  ‘Then we must continue on foot,’ said Amelie. The sounds of battle floated down Lofty Lane, the Tall Quarter having fallen as the army retreated. Manfred kicked the door open. He was still injured, the brown cloak he wore stained all over by the wounds beneath, but he was moving. The Staglord stepped out of the carriage into the street. The sight of the Werelord, even in human form, caused the townsfolk to pull back in awe. He might have been a shadow of his former self but there was no hiding his nobility. His greatsword strapped across his back, he held his arm up to the carriage and offered it to Amelie.

  ‘My lady.’

  Amelie slipped from the wagon to her old friend’s side. She was followed by the girl, Bethwyn, carrying her case, and finally Hector. The girl looked terrified, her eyes bigger and darker than ever. Hector reached across and took the case from her, giving her a reassuring nod. He would allow no harm to come to her. The Boarlord paused to speak to his drivers.

  ‘Grab my belongings, leave nothing, and follow us.’

  Ringlin and Ibal nodded, dropping the reins and whip immediately to follow their master’s orders.

  See how late you’ve left things, brother? Fetching the old woman, so noble a deed. Look at you now – trapped in the city, stuck pig ready for slaughter! See, Hector … they come …

  Hector looked up Lofty Lane over the crowd. Maybe a hundred yards away he could see the battle raging, swords, spears and scimitars clashing in the street. People screamed as the violence closed on them, a thin line of defending soldiers was all that kept the civilians safe. Duke Bergan was up there somewhere, leading the rearguard. The crowd surged on in a panic, too many people trying to get through too small a bottleneck.

  They’ll be here soon, Hector. Do you have your pretty dagger? You may need it before the night is through …

  Hector checked he still had his dagger, cursing himself for listening to the vile. He noticed that the sky was brightening; dawn approached. The screaming of a nearby woman alerted everyone’s attention to the harbour.

  The armada had appeared, filling the southern end of the bay, thousands of ships’ lanterns illuminating them on the horizon. The sheer number made Hector’s head spin.

  ‘How many ships? How many soldiers?’

  Manfred shook his head, pointing up the street towards the battle.

  ‘They don’t need the ships; the Dogs are doing all the work for them!’

  ‘This is no good. There has to be another way!’

  ‘There is none,’ said the Staglord, catching sight of a couple of Omiri warriors running down an alley. They chased a fleeing watchman, cutting him down from behind. Manfred whipped his greatsword off his back, guarding Amelie and Bethwyn.

  ‘We make a stand here.’

  You die here.

  ‘No!’ shouted Hector. �
�There is another way!’

  Bergan’s legs pounded between the gravestones, his muscles burning as he pushed his body on. He and the remaining Wolfguard had been the last line of defence. The civilians had disappeared into the Garden of the Dead, hopefully finding the tunnels. He hoped Carver had kept his side of the deal. Ahead and about him Greycloaks kept pace, stopping occasionally to fire their bows at their pursuers. There were maybe thirty Wolfguard remaining, the best of the best, having given everything in defending Highcliff. The only thing left to give was their lives. Two of Manfred’s knights accompanied him, one on each flank, each having shaken off their platemail once the fight had moved from the walls.

  A roar bellowed behind, closer now. Bergan risked glancing back, seeing shadows racing between the tombs and crypts, some of them threatening to overtake them.

  ‘Keep going!’ he shouted, veering away suddenly in a mighty bound.

  The Lionguard was flattened instantly by the Werebear’s axe, while his companion brought his sword up with a shriek. Both men were frail looking, the siege of the keep having starved them of their muscle and sanity, but they fought with the fervour of extremists. These were Leopold’s most faithful, driven mad by imprisonment within the castle. The second man lunged at the Bear, his Lionhead blade catching Bergan in the ribs. The sword went in like a hot knife through butter, the silver burning his insides on impact. Bergan punched the man through the air, the broken body crashing into a tombstone.

  He struggled for breath, catching the sword and whipping it from his torso. He tossed it, sick with pain. Every Lionguard carried silver weapons far more deadly than the Omiri’s. He saw figures moving through the morning mist of the cemetery.

  ‘The noose tightens,’ he murmured, turning to run.

  Bergan could see the cliffs now, and the ancient tombs of the old Werelords. Sure enough the last of the Greycloaks stood beside the open crypt of the Dragonlords, waiting for him. The tomb of the Dragonlords had long been a holy site for a select few who followed the ancient gods that pre-dated Brenn. Flowers littered the stone steps outside the ancient place, the bouquets flattened underfoot by the fleeing thousands.

  Carver stood in the open stone doorway with Captain Fry and the Stag’s knights.

  ‘My lord,’ said Fry. ‘There’s a problem.’

  ‘What?’ blustered Bergan, breathing heavily.

  ‘The doors,’ said Carver. ‘There’s nothing to stop them from following us.’

  ‘I’ll stay here with the men, sire, while you go on,’ said Fry. Manfred’s knights made noises of approval, deciding to stay and fight as well.

  ‘And when you’re dead?’ asked Carver. ‘Who stops them then?’

  Bergan’s head ached as if he’d been struck by a hammer blow. The sword wound in his chest wouldn’t stop bleeding. He’d stand and fight himself if he had to.

  ‘Did the queen make it through?’

  ‘Was she supposed to? I haven’t seen her pass by,’ said Carver.

  Bergan felt sick. Amelie, Manfred, even young Hector. He’d sent them this way to escape the city. Where were they?

  The roar of the Lion alerted them all that he was in the Garden of the Dead. The men gathered round Bergan. He’d let them down, every one. The city was lost, the future king gone, his closest friends possibly dead. He’d lost everything. He cast his gaze over the brave men around him, tears streaming from his eyes. Behind, Carver retreated as the roars drew closer.

  ‘I have to go. You’d be right to do the same, Bergan!’ he said, beckoning him with an open hand. Bergan looked round the doorway, huge pillars of stone holding up the rocky tunnel. He knew what had to be done.

  Raising his huge arms he leaned out across his men to the right, sweeping them back into the tunnel with a mighty paw. Then he did the same with his left, making the soldiers retreat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Fry. Carver put a hand on the man’s shoulder, but he shook it off. ‘The Lion and the Omiri! They come!’

  ‘Let them come, captain,’ bellowed the Bear. ‘Go!’

  The men backed away as Bergan raised his axe, just as Leopold landed beyond the stone steps outside. The Lion looked ragged, emaciated, his mane matted and torn. His features were lean and angular, his ribs visible down either side of his enormous torso. His red robe trailed in the mud as he rose to his full height, his sword held aloft. Its silver runes glinted in the half light of dawn.

  ‘Bergan!’ roared the Werelion, the cry echoing down the tunnel past the Bearlord, every fleeing man, woman and child hearing the rage of Leopold. ‘Thief! Take my city would you? If I can’t kill the Wolf then his protector will suffice!’

  The Werebear shifted his axe in his huge paws as the Lionguard and Omiri gathered behind the king.

  ‘You’ll never get the chance,’ said Duke Bergan as he swung his axe.

  The huge blade bit deep into the supporting pillar on the right side of the crypt, then was ripped swiftly out again with all Bergan’s might. He heaved it to the other wall, smashing the axe head into the opposite pillar, knocking the stonework away. Back again it went as the ceiling crumbled. Leopold roared, mouth foaming like a rabid beast as rocks began to tumble around Bergan. Still he swung his axe, stepping back, retreating, hitting more pillars and sections of the ceiling. Stone lintels tumbled, bouncing off him, knocking him from his feet, his lungs choking with dust.

  The last thing the Lord of Brackenholme heard was the roar of the rocks as the cliffs the city took its name from collapsed around him.

  Vega’s feet danced along the rain-slicked cobbles, his balance his greatest weapon as eight Omiri horseman chased him down. Around him the city was sacked, flames visible in the Tall Quarter on high while the harbour ahead was beginning to fill with Bastian warships. The bay was alive with smaller vessels rowing towards the shore from the anchored armada, each boat loaded with men-at-arms.

  Two spears bounced off the street at his feet, reminding the Sharklord to change direction occasionally. He’d remained in human form so as not to draw attention; a shifted therian would draw a crowd for all the wrong reasons. Regardless, the horsemen had found him and weren’t giving up the chase. He left behind him a burning fishmarket in the Low Quarter. Ahead he could see the pierhead, and beyond that the Maelstrom anchored away out to sea, her sails unfurling, ready for the off. Faster, you foolish old fish, faster!

  Twenty Omiri foot soldiers emerged at the bottom of Lofty Lane, the street that led directly to the long jetty that ran out to the sea. That had been the route he’d planned to take, the swiftest to his ship. A short hurling spear hit him in the shoulder, causing him to stumble and fly through the air. He skidded along the cobbles as the chasing horsemen surrounded him. He was short of the docks, so close yet so far. Instantly they were on him.

  Spears thrust down, jabbing and stabbing, tormenting the Sharklord from every angle. When the spears were lost or deposited in the Werelord’s body they switched to their scimitars. The swords proved equally deadly, slicing Vega as he struggled to rise. His hands came up to defend himself, and he felt steel graze bone, cutting his wrists and forearms. Was he the last man standing in Highcliff? Had everyone escaped? A scimitar slashed down his back, tearing into his scalp and sending a cloud of his dark curling locks through the air. That was too much for the Pirate Prince.

  Embracing the Shark he came up fighting, lashing out with teeth and hands. Rather than transforming into fins, his arms acquired sheets of flesh connecting his elbows to his torso like bat wings, his hands taking on a clawed form. He’d lost his cutlass long ago. The horses’ bellies erupted as he tore into them, their riders tumbling. As they fell he lunged, catching them, tossing them, hurling them back into the air. Bodies fell around him, broken and butchered.

  Vega was up and running now, his therian form embraced. Four of the Omiri remained standing, screaming to their companions that they’d found a Werelord. The twenty at the pierhead joined them as they pursued Vega towards the docks.

&n
bsp; The Sharklord’s feet tore up the ground as he ran. The cobbles were replaced by wooden boards as he thundered along a short jetty between fishing boats and lobster pots. The approaching Bastians saw him now, firing arrows that peppered the jetty and Vega’s body. He stumbled, struggling to the end of the jetty. Spears rained down as he staggered to the edge, falling with a great red splash into the cold dark water.

  By the time the chasing Omiri and the boatloads of Bastians arrived at the jetty’s end, Count Vega was long gone.

  8

  Honoured Guests

  Leopold sat on the stone throne of Highcliff, his hands patting the carved serpents’ heads that rode over the arms. It felt good to have his city back, to be able to walk freely out of the great doors and across his drawbridge. He picked up the roast chicken that lay in his lap, tearing the breast off and devouring it in one mouthful. He tore into a drumstick, savouring the flavour. Never had a meal been so fine. He and his men had been prisoners in their own keep for two months. His anger rose again as he choked on the chicken, thinking of the humiliation the Wolf had put him through. How they would suffer, how they would know his rage.

  The Rat King gathered round the table below, fighting among one another as they gorged. Vex, the youngest, had taken a haunch of rare beef to one side, his teeth worrying the bloody meat apart. Vorhaas and Vorjavik were busy clawing at one another, their sibling bickering knowing no bounds as they fought over a dish of ribs. The plate flew through the air, ribs skittering along the floor as the Wererats dived after them, hissing at one another as they retrieved the fallen meat. The metal dish rolled round on its edge, spinning, rattling, refusing to stop, the sound grating. A boot slammed down on it, halting its momentum instantly.

  ‘Show some class, you vermin,’ spat Vanmorten, the tallest and most formidable brother towering over the others. Even Leopold flinched, his lord chancellor’s wicked tongue never failing to impress him. The Rat brothers pulled away from his gaze, picking up the last ribs and standing once more by the table, their bickering ceased, for now.