‘You flatter me, Ringlin,’ said Hector, moving into the corridor. ‘You must be after a wage rise.’
‘You really think I do this just for the money?’ said the other, snorting, as they set off, deep beneath the palace. ‘Show me somewhere I can spend my gold and you might be nearer the mark.’
‘I’ve one more piece of business before we leave, Ringlin,’ said Hector as they walked. ‘I must free the Ugri from their bond, allow them to return to their homeland. Two Axes watches over the Duchess Freya. I’ll give him that news once we collect the queen’s body, and then we may follow the others out of here.’
‘You never know,’ said Ringlin, taking Hector by the elbow as he stumbled down the sloping corridor. ‘Two Axes may want to take Icegarden for himself.’
‘No,’ replied Hector. ‘He and his people may kill as many of the Crow’s men on their way out of here as they wish, but this city belongs in the paws of the White Bears. I aim to make it theirs again.’
Deeper they went into the belly of the palace, following twisting corridors and staircases down into the earth. Hector stopped suddenly, throwing his palm against his forehead.
‘What is it, my lord?’ asked Ringlin.
‘What a fool,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘I was in such a hurry that I’ve left a trinket behind.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Something my father gave me long ago.’ Hector sighed. ‘It’s a brooch, a clasp for my cloak: a charging boar fashioned out of bronze. It’s the only thing of his I still own. Damn.’
‘Let me go back and fetch it,’ said the man.
‘We haven’t time!’
‘I’ll be quick. Let me do this for you.’
‘It’s on my bedside table, Ringlin. Hurry, and I’ll meet you in the chapel.’
With that, the Boarguard was off and running back the way they’d come. Hector watched him disappear, continually impressed by the reformed rogue and the road to salvation the two were now embarking upon. Turning, he continued on his way.
As Hector neared the chapel, he felt cold sweat soaking his robes again, nausea rising in the pit of his stomach. Instantly his hand went to his chest, nursing the wound he’d sustained upon the end of Manfred’s antler. He could still feel the ribs grating within, his ragged lung rasping and rattling uselessly. A wave of dizziness came over him, growing with each faltering step, as the world turned and the corridor spiralled like a corkscrew. He blinked, trying to fight the vertigo.
‘Come on, Hector,’ he whispered, trying to bolster his fragile confidence. ‘Get a hold of yourself.’
Since his revelation in the company of Manfred and Carver, Hector had felt spiritually reborn, his mind almost returned to normality. He knew that there was a world of recompense due, that his crimes were great and many, but his heart was set upon reparation. His greatest joy came from the fact that he’d dispelled Vincent. There’d been no sign of the vile since his confrontation, and Hector’s relief was immense.
Clutching the wall, he continued onward along the gently curving corridor. Around the corner he saw the doorway, a torch spluttering in a bracket beside it. While one hand clutched his magister’s case, the other reached out to the wall of the corridor as he composed himself, the dizziness gradually lifting.
Hector took a further moment to compose himself before opening the door, taking the torch and entering the Chapel of Brenn.
Walking up to the altar, he placed his medicine bag at the foot before stepping up to the table’s head. Gingerly taking the sheet in his hands, he gently pulled it back, revealing Amelie’s peaceful face. He’d seen to her care in the aftermath of her death, ensuring she received all the funeral attention a deceased monarch deserved. The wound in her breast had been stitched up – by his own hand – and herbs and tinctures had been applied that would preserve the body and delay its decay.
‘I’m so sorry, Your Majesty.’ Hector sniffed, a trembling hand stroking her frigid cheek. ‘I promise, I’ll return you to Drew, or I’ll die trying.’
Another wave of dizziness washed over him. He wobbled where he stood, reaching out and taking hold of the altar’s edge. Hector shook his head, trying to chase away the vertigo before the attack could escalate. The feeling along the left side of his body suddenly disappeared and he staggered down the stone table’s length, clattering into his magister’s case. The bag tumbled from the table, its contents smashing and spilling across the floor of the chapel.
Hector dropped the torch to the floor and put a hand to his head, forcing his palm to his eye socket to quell the rising nausea. It felt like his skull was being torn apart.
‘Make it stop!’ he shouted as the pain suddenly intensified. The attack came on hard, far greater than before, an assault upon Hector’s every sense. Knives were driven into his ears, his eyes run through by burning pokers, his nose overcome by the foul stench of brimstone. He tried to cry out but his scream was stifled, as if a great beast were forcing itself down his throat, choking the air and despair from his twisted lungs. He tasted blood and bile, salt and sulphur. Hector was no longer aware of his surroundings. All he knew was pain, overwhelming and agonizing.
Banish me, would you, brother? I’ll go when I’m good and ready. All that knowledge in your pathetic little head …
Hector’s knees went from under him as he keeled over, his head cracking against the altar’s edge on his way to the floor. As the darkness approached, the last thing he heard was Vincent’s voice.
Wasted on you …
‘My lord?’
Ringlin stepped carefully down the darkened corridor towards the Chapel of Brenn. By now the freed prisoners were traversing the road beneath the mountain, on their way out of Icegarden and into the Whitepeaks. Ibal was with them, of course, no doubt keen for him to catch up. His giggling friend wouldn’t usually go anywhere without him; this was already the longest the two had been apart in years. Ringlin had his doubts about Hector’s plan, but he’d accepted there was no other course of action. Events in Sturmland had taken a distinct turn for the worse. Better to get out of the mountains now in one piece, and perhaps find his way back to the Dalelands.
‘Lord Hector?’
He’d hurried after his master as quickly as he could, knowing only too well how impulsive Hector could be. He looked at the bronze brooch in his hand, the heraldic symbol which was still of great value to the Boarlord. Clenching it in his fist, he called out again as he approached the chapel’s open door.
‘Hector?’ he called and pushed it open.
The room was a mess. Ringlin stepped gingerly through the debris, his foot sending a glass vial spinning across the floor, rattling as it went. The torch lay on the floor, its fading light illuminating the altar beside it. All around, the contents of Hector’s medicine case lay crushed and broken underfoot. Crouching, Ringlin reached out and took hold of the torch. As he righted it in his grasp he could now better see the floor. He caught his breath.
The unmistakable markings of Hector’s handiwork were there to behold, a crude brimstone circle etched around the altar. The black candle, the device his master used when communing with the dead, lay on its side, its melted wax pooling around its still-smouldering wick. Ringlin rose, lifting the torch and holding it out before him, dreading what awaited him.
The queen wasn’t so different from the beauty they’d laid to rest in the chapel some nights ago. Her long white hair remained braided and piled atop her head; her ivory skin glowed with the torchlight’s caress. Her ruby red lips parted ever so slightly as she seemed to exhale. Madness, Ringlin knew all too well: she was dead. Her eyes flickered open, twin flames of the brightest blue roa
ring into life at the sight of the rogue.
Ringlin stared at her in disgust, his mouth flapping, words failing him. A noise behind made him turn, as a figure stepped forward from the shadows. It was Hector. As the Boarlord stepped up he put a hand on Ringlin’s shoulder and pulled him closer. The jewel-encrusted dagger hit home, slicing straight and deep into the soldier’s guts. Hector gave it a twist as he gripped the man’s thick winter cloak by the collar, dragging him closer so he could speak in his ear.
‘Drunken fool, was I?’ he whispered venomously, giving the knife another savage turn. ‘Who’s the fool now, Ringlin?’
‘Why, Hector?’ spluttered Ringlin, his eyes wide with horror.
Snatching the boar brooch from his grasp, the magister shoved him backwards, into the embrace of the waiting ghoul. Pale slender arms came down and around the reformed rogue, Queen Amelie’s undead form burying its teeth into Ringlin’s shoulder.
‘I’m afraid Hector’s gone, old friend,’ said the Boarlord, snapping the bronze clasp on to his cloak and pulling the leather glove from his left hand. He tossed the glove away, tensing the black fist, his sickly face bright with wonder and fascination. He turned back to the undead monarch as Ringlin’s screams reached a blood-curdling pitch. ‘You’re speaking to Vincent now.’
1
The Emerald Forest
Of the ten pirates from the Maelstrom who had volunteered for the landing party, none had ever set foot on Bastian soil before. The oppressive heat, the vast expanse of tropical jungle and the shrieks and calls of strange, wild animals were constant reminders that they’d entered an alien world. The fact that they wore the unmistakable armour of Opal’s honour guard – constricting golden breastplates and stifling helms – only compounded their misery. For all that, they looked every inch a squad of fearsome warriors, shields strapped to their backs and shortswords swinging from their hips.
Three more travellers completed the group as they trudged in single file through the humid emerald forest. In among the pirates strode Whitley, while Drew walked ahead of Vega’s men, the pair sporting the same armour and distinctive gold helms as their companions. The count remained with his ship, having sailed on to Braga, home of the Pantherlords, to rescue the children of Opal. Florimo, the Ternlord, was scouting their route. The old bird had done an incredible job of getting Vega’s ship to Bast without being spotted, but the task of reaching Braga unnoticed was far trickier, with busier waters to navigate.
Drew’s expedition was heading directly towards Leos, the Bastian capital. As he strode ahead of the others, listening to their banter as they tried to keep their spirits high, Drew couldn’t help but be transported back to his time as a slave aboard the Banshee, destined for the isle of Scoria. He’d tried to escape his captors in a jungle just like this – Brenn knew where on the map that had been – encountering a crocodile and nearly getting killed in the process. This time he would tread carefully in the footprints their guide left for him to follow.
There she was, stalking ahead of them, the Werepanther leading the group deeper into the jungle. While the pirates struggled along the path at times, tripping or stumbling over vines, roots or rocks, Opal was the epitome of grace and balance, frequently stopping as her companions caught up. Presently she stood at the top of a fern-covered slope, glaring at the Lyssians. Everyone had noticed how Opal had transformed of late. Since her sharing of information, her aggressive demeanour had been replaced with one of calm. Furthermore, upon landing on the beach, she had a distinct spring in her stride. The Catlady seemed almost happy, which caused Drew concern. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the pile of torn bodies in the belly of the Nemesis and the Pantherlady’s bloody smile.
‘How much longer until we camp?’ called Whitley from her place in the group at his back. ‘Night’s drawing in. We don’t want to be fighting our way through the bush in the dark, do we? Brenn knows what manner of beasts live in this strange place!’
‘Come along, my lady,’ Drew replied. ‘A fine scout of the Woodland Watch, unnerved by a bit of jungle? Anyone would think you were as green as the trees!’
He looked back and was relieved to see her smiling as the pirates joined in and laughed. Since Whitley and he had come to terms with the fact that Opal was more use to them alive than dead, there had been a thawing in their relationship. Whitley’s frostiness had been replaced by a familiar warmth that Drew had feared he’d never see again. True to her word, she had accompanied them on their mission to Leos, despite Drew’s protestations. Whitley wasn’t about to leave Drew in the hands of the Panther. The Lady of Brackenholme didn’t trust Opal, and it was hard to blame her after what the woman had put her through. Drew turned back to the trail ahead and stopped. He’d lost sight of Opal.
‘Keep it down,’ said Drew, briefly turning back to them. ‘Remember where we are.’
By the Catlady’s reckoning they were around three leagues from Leos. Ordinarily, Drew might have suggested they press on, as they could cover the distance in a matter of hours, but this wasn’t Lyssia. Here, surrounded by dense undergrowth, picking their way through an inhospitable tropical forest, it would have been madness. The shadows were drawing in, plunging great swathes of the jungle into darkness.
‘Opal!’ he hissed, running on ahead, following her trail up the rise to see where she’d got to. He pushed the ferns aside, using his hand for extra purchase in the damp earth as he scrambled ever higher. Upon reaching the top he expected to find her halfway down the hill on the other side. Instead, he found more forest and no sign of the woman.
‘Curse you, Opal,’ he snarled, ripping his helmet off. His dark hair was plastered to his face, streams of sweat trickling down his torso within the golden breastplate. He couldn’t quite believe she would do this to them. She needed them, just as they needed her. Vega was en route to finding her children. If anything were to happen to Drew and the men from the Maelstrom, that would destroy any chance Opal had of ever seeing them again. She was an outlaw in Bast now, though the news wouldn’t have reached her homeland yet. How could she turn her back on Drew – and her children – now? Whitley had been right all along. With dread, he turned about, ready to pass on the awful news to his companions.
The jungle was silent.
The only sound came from those oblivious crew members from the Maelstrom who were making a little too much noise as they traipsed through the foliage. From his lofty vantage point he could see the expanse of shoulder-high ferns below, spreading out and covering the forest floor. Drew took a step, about to descend the slope, when he caught sight of a dark shape moving through the ferns, twenty yards away from the group. He waved his hand, miming the need for quiet, but none of them noticed. Brave and loyal they might be, but stiff and regimental they certainly weren’t.
Drew leapt on to a tree stump for a better view. There she was, slinking through the undergrowth, stalking her prey. She was enormous, as large when transformed as the mightiest warhorse. She remained on all fours, staying low to the ground, now only ten yards from the men.
‘Ho!’ Drew shouted. ‘The Panther’s in the ferns! Defend yourselves, now!’
Instantly the pirates were fumbling for their weapons, some going straight for their shields. Their sudden animation spurred the beast to attack, the jungle exploding as the predator pounced. Drew started running.
Close to twenty feet long, the giant black cat was larger than any Drew had ever seen. The ebony fur shimmered as its paws and jaws lashed out. The crowd from the Maelstrom were bowled over, instantly dispersed as the monster tore into them. A helmet flew into the air, the head within narrowly avoiding accompanying it. The deafening growls and hisses of the panther
only raised further panic among the pirates.
Drew was shifting as he ran, his clawed fingers struggling to loosen the clasps on the golden breastplate as his torso swelled within. He’d entrusted their lives to Opal in the foolish belief she’d see them safely through the jungle, at least until they reached Leos. Instead, she’d double-crossed them at the first opportunity, waiting until they were in the deepest, darkest corner of hell before turning on them. Drew snatched Moonbrand in a clawed hand and leapt the remaining twenty feet. Launching himself from the higher ground, the Werewolf was able to fly straight for the monster’s long, black back.
As the lycanthrope came down, the blade shining above his head, the Werepanther suddenly rolled on to its back, ignoring the crew members as they scrambled clear. Four huge paws were raised over the panther’s belly defensively as the legs lashed out at Drew. A giant limb connected with him, kicking him away through the air once more. Hitting a tree, he fell to the ground in a stunned heap, gasping for breath. He clawed at the armour, finding the breastplate crumpled from the impact with the panther’s paw. His claws ripped at the leather buckles, tearing the plate free as the young Wolf wheezed and wobbled.
He looked around for Moonbrand, but saw no sign of the enchanted blade. Heaving himself to his feet, he began stumbling back through the ferns towards the melee, where the crew members were valiantly trying to combat the beast. Drew couldn’t believe how big she was, fully transformed, and just how much control she had over her therianthropy. She had shifted entirely into the creature, humanity abandoned. The only other two Werelords Drew had seen with this power were Vala and the Kraken, and the Catlady seemed every inch their equal in battle.
‘Fight me, Opal!’ Drew roared as he staggered back towards the battle. Drew’s hand was open, claws tensed and ready to trade blows. He snarled, trying to draw the Werepanther’s attention away from the shocked and scattered sailors. Slowly the monster’s head swung around towards the Wolf, a rumbling growl emanating from its chest.
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