Rage of Lions Read online

  Praise for Wereworld: Rise of the Wolf:

  ‘… excellent new series’ – SFX

  ‘… superior to Eragon, and pure fun’ – The Times

  ‘The most exciting fantasy story I have read for years, Wereworld had me enthralled from the first page until the very last, leaving me hungry for the next instalment’ – bookzone4boys.blogspot.com

  ‘Incredibly highly recommended – dramatic escapes, incredible rescues, huge battles, terrible betrayals, human sacrifices, and all of it feels perfect!’ – thebookbag.co.uk

  ‘A fantastic blend of action-adventure, with a great sprinkling of horror-magic stirred in’ – mrripleysenchantedbooks.blogspot.com

  ‘Wereworld is a brilliant adventure story that keeps you utterly hooked. I can’t wait for the next one!’ – wondrousreads.com

  Shortlisted for the 2011 Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize

  RAGE OF LIONS

  CURTIS JOBLING

  PUFFIN

  The designer of Bob the Builder, creator of Frankenstein’s Cat and Raa Raa the Noisy Lion, and the author/illustrator of numerous children’s books, Curtis Jobling lives with his family in Cheshire, England. Although perhaps best known for his work in TV and picture books, Curtis’s other love has always been horror and fantasy for an older audience. Wereworld: Rise of the Wolf was shortlisted for the 2011 Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize.

  www.curtisjobling.com

  Explore Wereworld if you dare at

  www.wereworldbooks.com

  Books by Curtis Jobling

  The Wereworld series (in reading order)

  Rise of the Wolf

  Rage of Lions

  For Mark and Karen, my brother and twin:

  it’s always about the siblings

  Contents

  Prologue: Outrider

  Part I: The Wolf’s Council

  1. The Lord Protector

  2. The Blade and the Beast

  3. Dwellers in the Dark

  4. The Staglord’s Vengeance

  5. Autopsy

  6. Under Cover of Darkness

  Part II: The Talstaff Road

  1. Breaking the Boar

  2. The Scent

  3. The Lords of Redmire

  4. By Royal Command

  5. Shelter from the Storm

  6. Hunting the Fox

  Part III: Of Blood, Thieves and Flesh

  1. The Lord of Thieves

  2. Sibling Rivalry

  3. The Wound That Would Not Heal

  4. The Goats and the Rams

  5. The Key

  6. The Battle of Haggard

  7. Unleashed

  8. No More Sleeps

  Part IV: The Storm from the South

  1. An Open Heart

  2. Cape Gala

  3. The Bows of Saddlers Row

  4. Beyond the Gates

  5. The Broken Heart Tavern

  6. Power Play

  7. Blood and Rain

  Part V: Biting Back

  1. The Uninvited Guest

  2. The Vagabond Players

  3. The Tightening Noose

  4. Breakout

  5. City on Fire

  6. The Ratlord’s Brood

  7. The Lion Unchained

  8. Honoured Guests

  Epilogue: Fractured Family

  Prologue: Outrider

  As the bells of Brenn’s Temple rang out, the young man rose from his chair and looked out over the Tall Quarter of the city of Highcliff. From his lofty vantage point he might have seen all of Westland’s capital sprawling out before him, but for the dark clouds that filled the night sky. The moon was obscured, just as they’d predicted. The third chime that marked the hour was his signal to go. Picking up his backpack from the foot of his bed he checked it over once more. A thin bedroll was stowed in the bottom. Reaching a hand into the folds of material he felt around, his fingertips searching until they connected with the hard edge of the scroll case. Content, he removed his hand, patted the bedroll down and strapped the pack tightly shut.

  He double-checked his weapon belt once more, tugging the buckle tight and shifting his scabbard around his left hip. The sword hilt and pommel, wrapped in dirty cloth, disappeared into the dark recesses of his cloak as he hefted the backpack over his shoulders. Stepping up to the window he deftly lifted the latch before swinging it out. Cool night air rolled in, the smell of the sea riding on the wind up from the Low Quarter. The streets were empty, although those avenues closer to Highcliff Keep glittered with torchlight. The encampment of military tents surrounding the castle effectively cordoned it off from the rest of the city under the watchful eye of Lord Bergan and his allies. The man glanced down – two floors below the creaking wooden sign of The Halfway House inn swung to and fro in the breeze. If he were to slip it would be a swift plummet to the cobbles four storeys down and doubtless death.

  The man reached up over his head and took a firm grip on the guttering. Turning his back to the street he stood on the window ledge before hauling himself up to the roof. A dozen buildings separated him from the stables, with a handful of alleys and treacherous drops added for good measure. He set off, staying low and hugging the shadows. Up one slope and skidding down the next, each of his steps threatened to dislodge a shingle and send it crashing to the cobbles. Guards had patrolled the streets every evening since the uprising, ensuring the curfew was maintained and nobody but the military was out after dark. As he approached a gap in the rooftops he didn’t slow to look down – if he had he might have had second thoughts. Instead he flung himself across the gap, landing with as much grace as his frantic heart allowed.

  On only one occasion did he see any of the City Watch, but worse luck it was on the street corner nearest the stable block. At such a late hour they were quite relaxed, chatting as they walked the quieter avenues of the Tall Quarter. According to the Lord Protector, the curfew was simply a precaution in case hostilities recommenced. It was a good way for the allies’ men to keep their attention focused on the deposed King Leopold the Lion now beseiged in Highcliff Keep without the distractions that the daytime brought. There was nothing for them to fear at their backs and consequently the further one moved away from the centre of the city, the slacker security became. Four weeks of relative inactivity since the uprising had led the Lord Protector’s men to think that the battle was won. Nevertheless, the gates remained locked through the night, while by day they were heavily manned. Rumour had it that the guards had arrested at least thirty of the Lionguard who had tried to slip away from the city in the crowds, and that they now languished in the cells of Traitors’ House, awaiting trial.

  The young man watched as the soldiers moved on. He counted thirty breaths before trusting his life to the rusty drainpipe that snaked down to the street below. Dropping the last few feet he ducked back into the shadows, glancing up and down the street to make sure nobody was about. The stables backed on to Hammergate, one of the smallest entrances into Highcliff, traditionally used by the wealthier merchants who wanted to avoid the congested Mucklegate and Kingsgate. It cost a few bronze more to enter Highcliff via Hammergate, and consequently many of the townhouses in the Tall Quarter were home to Westland’s most successful citizens. The man looked at the stables, lips dry with anticipation. There was bound to be a good horse or two to choose from in there.

  Having scouted Hammergate thoroughly over the last two days he knew exactly what to expect here. Indeed he’d chanced coming out over the rooftops the previous night to see what the numbers were like. Two soldiers manned the gate after dark, and they’d remained in their guardhouse for most of this time, stepping out only once to speak with their colleagues as they passed on patrol. The stable block was right beside the gate, making access directly
from it and out of Hammergate relatively simple. If the gate was open. If …

  Scampering across the street, the man hit the shadows on the opposite side, on the corner of the stable block that was hidden from the guardhouse. He glanced round the corner. Low voices and laughter could be heard from behind the glowing window of the guardhouse. Bending low once more he slipped round the corner and up to the gate. It was pitch-black in the gate alcove, but he could just make out the wooden beam that held the gate shut. Taking hold of it he lifted it from its moorings and slid it back into the wall until one of the gates was free. He held his breath all the while, heart thundering as he listened for the guards, but their easy banter continued unabated. He eased the left hand gate forward and it swung smoothly on its hinges to a point that was wide enough for him, and a horse, to get through.

  Backing away, the young man disappeared into the stable block. Stalls lined the walls on either side, the gentle sounds of horses moving lightly in their sleep emanating from each of them. He looked quickly into the stalls as he passed, left and right, trying to find a likely candidate. Halfway down the corridor he did a double take – there was a chestnut brown thoroughbred, the kind favoured by the cavalry. Stabled up here it no doubt belonged to a merchant’s courier. The decision was too easy.

  Lifting the latch he slipped inside. The horse started at the stranger’s presence. He stepped up and smoothed his hands over the animal’s neck and back, quickly putting it at ease.

  ‘Good girl,’ he whispered, bringing his face round to hers and blowing on her nose. She seemed lively, which would also be good. It had been so long since he’d worked with a horse that he found himself smiling. He reached in front and began to untether her from a stone ring that held her close to the wall. As he was distracted he didn’t notice the rising glow of lamplight behind him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  He turned quickly, but it was too late to hide. An old man stood in the doorway, a hooded lantern held up so he could better see the intruder.

  ‘I’m Goodman Wake’s courier,’ he said, thinking quickly. He squinted into the light, unable to fully make out the old man’s features. ‘Just come to check on my horse.’

  ‘Never heard of no Goodman Wake, and I’m sure as houses that ain’t your mare.’ He stepped closer, moving the lantern forward. ‘You know there’s a curfew on, don’t you, boy?’

  There was no time for games. He moved quickly, instinctively. Reaching into his cloak, he withdrew his sword and the stable-hand staggered backwards. The old man swung the lantern defensively and the metal casing caught on the swaddled pommel, tearing free the material that covered it. As the cloth fluttered to the ground there was no mistaking the Lions-head that shone in the lantern light, golden and roaring. The old man opened his mouth to cry out and the attacker moved fast, swinging the sword round and bashing him across the temple with the pommel. A ragged gash appeared across his brow as he tumbled to the ground.

  The young man had to work fast. He snatched down a saddle and threw it over the horse’s back, hastily tightening the girth.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said to the prone stable-hand as he stepped over him, the horse following and doing likewise.

  Once out of the stall he hauled himself up into the saddle with ease.

  ‘Stop him!’ cried the old man, recovering his wits enough to see what was happening. ‘Thief!’

  The young horseman needed no more prompting. He kicked the horse’s flanks, causing it to rear up before charging for the stable doors. He burst out into the street to find the soldiers out of their guardhouse and standing in his way, fully to attention, their halberds raised before them.

  ‘Halt!’

  Beyond them he could see the open gate, freedom so tantalizingly close. To be stopped now, so near to escape – he grimaced, turning the horse and batting back the halberds with his Lionshead blade. He could hear the sound of more guards running now as they charged down the street to their comrades’ aid.

  ‘Halt, I said,’ repeated the soldier. ‘In the name of the Wolf!’

  That was the spur the rider needed. With another hard kick he urged his mount forward, charging the guards; roaring, wild. They looked terrified, wavering momentarily as the madman rushed them. A moment was all he needed. He swung the sword furiously, slashing down on his right side and knocking the halberd from one guard’s hands, before kicking out to the left and connecting with the second soldier’s head. In a flash he was between them, past them and hurtling through Hammergate.

  The guards didn’t give chase. The man was just another coward who had served the Lion, desperate to get away from the Lord Protector’s justice. They’d caught more than their fair share on the gates – so what if this one got away? They watched him disappear into the darkness, the sound of hoof-beats fading, before eventually closing the gate.

  They would forever remain oblivious to the importance of his mission.

  1

  The Lord Protector

  Duke Bergan’s boots pounded up the spiral steps of Traitors’ House, eager to reach the top. He hated stairs, especially the stone variety. They always reminded him that he wasn’t back in his beloved Brackenholme. Yes, there were steps there, but they were few and far between. The Bearlord’s Hall sat high within the branches of one of the five Great Trees that marked the woodland city as one of the most marvellous throughout the Seven Realms. A series of strong wicker cages winched visitors skywards to bring them to the Hall of the Werebear, three hundred feet high in the boughs of the Great Oak. It was said that these trees were the ancient mothers of all of Lyssia’s trees, a legend that Bergan had no trouble believing.

  Homesickness he could handle, but the daily drudge of climbing up and down the stairways of Traitors’ House was taking it out of him. If the Lion hadn’t locked himself away within Highcliff Keep he’d have no need to go through this ritual. With no courtroom he and the Wolf’s Council had been left with no option but to procure the old tower with its unfortunate name. Traitors’ House had started life as a garrison tower and jail many years ago and, though dwarfed by Highcliff Keep, was still imposing alongside any other structure in the city. In the last few decades its sole purpose had been as a prison, home to thieves, pickpockets and the brave but foolish idealists who dared speak up against the king’s rule. While the cells beneath the old white stone tower still contained a great many miscreants, once Bergan had assumed the role of Lord Protector he’d quickly set about reprieving as many political prisoners as he could. If they were enemies of the Lion they were usually friends of the Bear.

  The world had changed dramatically since King Leopold, the Werelion, had been overthrown. Many lesser Werelords had been present at the aborted wedding of Leopold’s son, Prince Lucas, to the Werefox Lady Gretchen. They now supported Duke Bergan and his allies, Manfred and Mikkel, the Stags of the Barebones. All were united in their support of Drew Ferran, the boy who had arrived out of nowhere, having grown up as a human, knowing nothing of his heritage as last in the line of Werewolves and rightful king of Westland. The boy was still raw, looking like he might run at the first opportunity, and it was taking all the Wolf’s Council’s diplomacy and knowledge to ease him into his role as heir to the throne. He wasn’t just coming to terms with being the future king; he’d discovered he was a therianthrope, a werecreature like all the nobles of Lyssia. It was hard to tell what scared the boy more.

  As Bergan finally reached the top, the staircase opened on to a stone landing before a heavy wooden door. A soldier stood on either side, loyal survivors of Wergar’s old Wolfguard. They wore newly fashioned tabards that bore the Wolfshead, silver on a field of black, a reassuringly familiar sight to the old duke. He couldn’t help but think back to the old campaigns he’d fought in alongside Wergar and the scrapes the two had got into. The boy, Drew, was a very different character from his father.

  Wergar, driven and headstrong, had been predictable and stubborn whereas Drew was more thoughtful and considerate, wiser than his
years. If he’d been raised in the Court of Highcliff by his birth parents, Bergan had no doubt that he’d have been the double of his father. As it was, Drew had been raised by a farming family on the Cold Coast. His adoptive father had been in the old Wolfguard, so the boy had been schooled from an early age with a sword, something most peasants never experienced. The mother had been a maid to Queen Amelie, pouring love and kindness into the boy. Those very human values had forged him into a unique Werelord – one who could touch the hearts and minds of the common man as well as his fellow therianthropes. Bergan was confident that one day Drew would make a great king.

  The guards opened the door for the Bearlord, holding it wide as he entered the Wolf’s Council Chamber. Bergan had made the building his home, while other members of the Wolf’s Council stayed in larger residences around Highcliff. Drew and his mother, Queen Amelie, were living with Duke Manfred, the Werestag, and his family. Manfred owned a handsome estate in the wealthiest part of Highcliff – for the most part Buck House had been unoccupied for the last fifteen years, as the Lord of Stormdale did not enjoy the warmest of relationships with King Leopold. With the Lion dethroned Manfred had quickly gone about airing the old mansion and staffing it with servants. Affording Drew privacy while he was schooled, it was the perfect home for the young Werewolf until they managed to oust the Lion from his stony bolthole in Highcliff Keep. But the Lion wasn’t coming quietly.