Shadow of the Hawk (Book 3) Read online

  CURTIS JOBLING

  Wereworld

  Shadow of the Hawk

  PUFFIN

  Contents

  Part I: Survivors

  1. Savage Shores

  2. Prisoners of War

  3. The Black Staircase

  4. House of the White Whale

  5. The Eighth Wonder

  6. Blazetown

  Part II: Red Sand, Dead Sea

  1. A Beast at One’s Back

  2. Deadly Waters

  3. Blood in the Dust

  4. The Bold Thunder

  5. Recrimination and Recuperation

  6. Song of the Sirens

  7. Hunter’s Moon

  8. A World Away

  9. Bitter Blows

  Part III: The Fires of the Furnace

  1. Battle of the Beasts

  2. The Upper Claw

  3. The White Isle

  4. New Oaths

  5. The Host

  Part IV: The Kiss of Silver

  1. The Hawklord’s Tale

  2. The Game

  3. The Bloody Bay

  4. Back from the Dead

  5. Overwhelming Odds

  6. Straight and True

  7. The Jewel of Omir

  Part V: Dangerous Games

  1. Witness

  2. In the Jaws of the Jackal

  3. Duel

  4. The Port at the End of the World

  5. A Captive Audience

  6. Nowhere to Run

  7. The Stars Over Azra

  8. A Welcome in Tuskun

  Part VI: Talons and Turncoats

  1. Two Rivers

  2. The Wrong Answers

  3. Tor Raptor’s Mercy

  4. The Scene of the Crime

  5. The Screaming Peak

  6. A Gift from the North

  7. Return to the Pack

  8. The Heirs and the Honest

  Part VII: Death from Above

  1. The Guest

  2. The Steppen Falls

  3. The Ratlord’s Skull

  4. Crossroads

  Epilogue: Man and Boy

  Acknowledgements

  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

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Praise for Wereworld: Rise of the Wolf

  ‘A promising start to an excellent new series’ – SFX

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

  ‘Jobling’s characterizations are solid, his world-building is complex and fascinating, and the combat scenes are suitably exciting’ – Publishers Weekly starred review

  ‘… this will find broad appeal among lovers of adventure fantasy’ – Kirkus Reviews

  ‘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

  Books by Curtis Jobling

  The Wereworld series (in reading order)

  Rise of the Wolf

  Rage of Lions

  Shadow of the Hawk

  For Mum and Dad

  1

  Savage Shores

  The shrieks of strange beasts heralded his approach: a chorus of barks, booms and bellows that echoed through the jungle. Creatures dotting the riverbanks ran for cover in the dense forest, dashing out of sight at the figure’s frantic approach. His legs powered through the brackish water, feet struggling for purchase on the sandy riverbed as he put distance between himself and the beach behind him at the mouth of the shallow river. Spots of sunlight broke through the emerald canopy overhead, illuminating him briefly as he passed, leaving frothing waves in his wake.

  Drew Ferran looked back all the while, eyes searching the landscape for those who followed. He had to keep moving, couldn’t stop for one moment. If they found him it would be back into the belly of the slave ship. The harsh cry of a nearby animal surprised him, causing him to stumble with a splash. Indistinct shapes darted from tree to tree on either side of him, leaping through branches, shadowing his every step. Not so far away he could hear the shouts of Count Kesslar’s men tracking him. Drew pushed on; he much preferred taking his chances in the wild.

  He’d left chaos behind on the beach. The Banshee had only dropped anchor to allow the quartermaster to take men ashore to gather provisions. Those crew members remaining had made the most of the break, swimming in the bay or relaxing on deck. When the ship’s cook had brought Drew his meal – foul-smelling strips of rancid meat on a heavy steel dish – the guard had casually unlocked his cell door. Drew had acted fast. Within moments both cook and guard lay unconscious, the dish having proved a surprisingly adequate improvised weapon.

  Emerging on a deck loaded with slavers, Drew hadn’t stopped for goodbyes. He’d instantly spied the nearby jungle-covered shore and leaped overboard. The chill ocean had been a shock to his system, but Drew was made of hardy stuff; growing up, he and his brother, Trent, had frequently swum in the White Sea. These clear waters had nothing on the Cold Coast. When he’d surfaced he’d kept his head down, swimming hard, not looking back as he headed for the beach. His newly missing hand caused him grief and made it difficult to swim, but the promise of freedom more than made up for this hindrance, granting him unexpected energy.

  Manacled by the Ratlord Vanmorten in the palace of High Stable and surrounded by a horde of approaching undead, Drew had been left with little choice. By biting his own hand from his wrist, he’d lived to fight another day, but the phantom pains in the stump were a constant reminder of his loss.

  Scrambling up the golden sand he’d glanced back to see rowing boats making for the shore, men-at-arms shouting to one another as they made to recapture him. Further along the beach he’d seen the quartermaster’s team emerge from the trees, dropping their baskets of fruit and giving chase when they spotted Drew dashing towards the jungle’s edge.

  The river he was following had emerged into the sea from deep within the jungle. As the tropical forest on each bank looked impenetrable, Drew had opted to follow the river itself away from the beach. He scratched at his throat, cursing the collar Kesslar’s slavers had secured around it. With the metal ring removed he would have been free to change, to embrace the Werewolf. He was amazed how quickly he’d come to rely upon his lycanth
ropic ability. A relatively short time ago he’d been a simple farm boy, content with his lot in life. With the discovery of his powers and the events that had followed, he’d initially resented his true identity – the last of the shapeshifting Wolflords. In time he’d learned to control the beast, call upon it in times of need, to save his friends and defeat his enemies.

  Drew’s feet caught against something hard on the riverbed, sending him tumbling forward, face disappearing beneath the turbulent water. Frantically, he spluttered back to the surface, struggling for air in a panic. Something large brushed against his side before hitting his legs hard. Drew’s body was propelled through the air and then back beneath the water, unable to tell up from down. He opened his eyes, squinting against the storm of churning water and sand. A dark shape emerged, huge mouth opening wide to reveal rows of jagged teeth. Drew found his bearings at the last moment, kicking clear and dodging the jaws as they snapped shut.

  Rising from the water, Drew gasped for breath, realizing with horror that he had been propelled into a lake. He caught a full view of the circling monster. Perhaps fifteen feet long, it bore no resemblance to anything he’d ever seen. Its skin was dark green with tough, gnarled ridges rising along the length of its body down to its great, swishing tail. Its head briefly surfaced and the beast’s yellow eyes regarded him. Dozens of filthy teeth interlocked the length of its immense three-foot-long jaws, clasped together like miserly fingers. It seemed reptilian, like the rock lizards that inhabited the cliffs back home, but owed more in its terrifying appearance to the dragons from Drew’s childhood storybooks.

  The water erupted as the monster propelled itself at Drew, causing him to scramble backwards. Teeth took hold of his leg, threatening to pull him under as the creature began to roll. Drew disappeared beneath the foaming surface, his body spinning as the beast turned ferociously, trying to drown him. Drew felt his trousers tear, realizing with relief that the monster had only taken hold of the tattered material. With a kick he was free, propelling himself away from the chaos.

  He hit the bank, scrambling against the muddy incline, struggling to find a purchase. The fingers on his remaining hand tore into the wet clay, the bank falling away around him. Exposed roots hung overhead, agonizingly out of reach. He leaped up, snatching at them before splashing pathetically back into the water. Drew staggered to his feet, working his way along the muddy slope, slipping and sliding as he searched vainly for an escape route. He caught a branch that was floating by and used it to try and hook the roots, pull them down within reach. Then the sound of surging water caused Drew to turn.

  The monster’s jaws had emerged from the water; the beast was launching itself at Drew. He turned the branch quickly, shoving it into the creature’s open maw as it came in for the kill. The branch disappeared into its red fleshy gullet like a sword into its sheath. Instantly the monster broke away, thrashing and snapping its teeth, trying to dislodge the maddening branch. Drew didn’t wait around. He kicked on, swimming once more as he headed for the lake mouth. Behind, he could hear crunching and splintering as the creature turned the branch into kindling. Move, Drew; it’ll be your bones next!

  Drew had no strength left, exhausted from fleeing his captors and then fighting the ferocious animal. He collapsed against a fallen tree that ran down from the jungle into the water, the monster racing up behind him. Drew tried to climb the trunk, crying out loud when a strip of bark came away in his hand.

  But the killing blow never arrived. A rope net sailed through the air, weighted down along its edges by lead balls. The net descended over the creature, swiftly entangling the beast as it rolled. The more it struggled the tighter the net bound. More ropes flew into the lagoon, lassoing the monster and holding it fast as the crew of the Banshee appeared along the banks of the lake.

  The fallen tree trunk shuddered as something landed overhead. Drew turned, backing away while looking up its length and squinting. The unmistakable figure of the slaver Djogo stood silhouetted in a shaft of sunlight. The leather patch over his left eye covered the empty socket Drew had left him with back in Haggard. For the first time, Drew saw an unusual scar on Djogo’s bare shoulder, a triangle within a circle. Like a brand we’d give the animals back home on the farm.

  ‘Nearly got yourself killed, Wolf.’

  Drew looked back at the beast as the sailors subdued it, securing its limbs together, binding its jaws shut. ‘What kind of monster is it?’

  ‘A crocodile: if you think that’s monstrous you’ll love the Furnace!’

  The crack of Djogo’s whip made everyone in the water jump, as the long lash of leather snared Drew around the throat. His hand went to the noose as he struggled to breathe. Djogo tugged at the whip, the cord tightening its hold around the captive therian’s throat, causing his eyes to bulge from their sockets.

  ‘Struggle all you like, boy,’ said the slaver, grinning as he yanked the lash tight, winding the whip in and hauling the choking Wolflord ever closer to him. ‘It’s back to the Banshee for you!’

  2

  Prisoners of War

  The two captains knelt on the Maelstrom’s deck, each showing very different spirit. The older man kept his head bowed, although his eyes scanned the surrounding audience, weighing up the futile situation. In his twilight years, he should have been in some distant port, warming himself by a roaring fire instead of cowering on the pitching deck of a pirate ship. The fellow at his side kept his back straight, chest out, staring his enemies down, shouting and swearing all the while. Younger, cockier and with far too much to say, it looked increasingly likely he’d get them both killed.

  Count Vega paced back and forth in front of them, letting the younger captain exhaust himself with his torrent of abuse. Behind Vega stood Duke Manfred, the Werestag of Stormdale, watching impassively. Queen Amelie stood beside the duke, leaning on his arm for support as the ship lurched against the waves. Bethwyn, her lady-in-waiting and constant shadow, stood at her shoulder. The Werelords were ringed by a crowd of pirates who kept a respectful distance.

  Baron Hector, the young Boarlord of Redmire, stood behind the two kneeling men, watching the pacing Sharklord. Hector and his fellow therianthropes had fled Highcliff in the wake of the attack by the Doglords of Omir and the Catlords of Bast. As founding members of the Wolf’s Council, he, Vega and Manfred had been instrumental in supporting Drew Ferran, the young Werewolf and rightful heir to the throne of Westland, as they defeated King Leopold, the Werelion. With the Lion trapped within Highcliff Keep, the Wolf’s Council had held control of the city, laying siege to the overthrown king and waiting for his surrender. After the unexpected arrival of Leopold’s allies, the group had narrowly escaped Highcliff with their lives. Their enemy had given chase, the remaining allies of the Wolf jumping on board the pirate ship, the Maelstrom, as the Wereshark captain tried to spirit them away from their foes.

  The prisoners knew him. Vega’s reputation as Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles ensured he was known across the White Sea. When the small, ragtag fleet that had escaped Highcliff had been spotted off Vermire, three ships had come after them. Knowing that their companion vessels weren’t built for battle, Vega had sent them on ahead, with the plan to regroup at the Sturmish port of Roof. The Maelstrom had then turned about and engaged the enemy. She’d charged into their midst, breaking their formation, leading them back towards the coast, away from the fleeing civilian ships.

  ‘When the Kraken gets a hold of you he’ll drag you down to Sosha’s bed, leave you there for the crabs. You’d save Ghul a lot of time by dropping on your sword,’ spat the younger captain while his companion remained silent.

  ‘I would, dear boy, but I fear it wouldn’t kill me,’ sighed Vega.

  He’s not wrong, mused Hector. As a therianthrope the Sharklord was immune to most injuries, his accelerated healing repairing wounds that would be fatal for a mortal. There were exceptions to the rule, of course; silver and the physical attack of another we
recreature could each lead directly to death.

  There’s always magick too, brother, hissed the Vincent-vile in Hector’s ear. Can’t forget the magick now, can we?

  Hector shivered, shrugging the dark spirit away. It was unnerving to have the disembodied voice of one’s dead brother following you around, especially as only Hector could hear him. The Boarlord had played his part in the death of his twin, and was paying the price each and every day. Hector rubbed the gloved palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right nervously, the leather squeaking as he circled the dark mark that stained the flesh beneath. The black spot had appeared the first time he had communed with the dead Wylderman shaman, back in the Wyrmwood. Talking with the dead was forbidden to all magisters, but desperate measures had been called for in order that he and Drew could save their friend Lady Gretchen from the wild men and their mistress, the Wereserpent. Each following occasion when he’d dabbled in communing, the dark spot had grown, the flesh corrupting with every dark act. Shivering, he clenched his gloved hands into fists and returned his gaze to the captured pirates.

  ‘You think you’re smart, Vega, but you’re just lucky! It was rocks what ripped the belly out of the Ace o’ Clubs, not any fancy move on the Maelstrom’s part!’

  The captain was bitter that his ship had struck the submerged rocks, and understandably so. The following vessel had ploughed into the back of it, the two keeling over as men dived away from the wreckage of twisted timber and lashing ropes. That had left one ship for the Maelstrom to engage: the bigger, slower Leviathan. Pitched against the deadliest crew and craftiest captain of all the Cluster Isles, the big boat hadn’t stood a chance. Vega’s ship had outmanoeuvred it, dodging its catapults and sending flaming arrows, cannon fire and heavy bolts of its own into masts and deck. The battle was over and the white flag now fluttered from the mainmast – the Leviathan’s captain having no choice but to surrender to the count.