Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 11

  Count Croke sat bound by lengths of chain to a hard wooden chair. It was said that Croke was almost two hundred years old, and Drew had little trouble believing the claim. The Crowlord was a shrivelled husk of a man, his arms and legs wire thin, while his torso was misshapen and twisted. Lumps were visible beneath his tattered black robe, where gnarled muscles knotted over his bones, corrupted and deformed by disease and advancing years. Croke had spent a lifetime indulging in all manner of vile activities, and was addicted to awful exotic medicines.

  Brenn may have blessed the Werelords with longevity, mused Drew grimly, but there is no accounting for the bodily abuses a therian will indulge in.

  ‘You can end this tonight, Croke,’ said Red Rufus, pacing behind the prisoner. ‘Call off your army, tell ’em to head home, and you can leave ’ere with your life.’

  The Crowlord laughed, a wheezing wet sound that broke into a fit of hacking coughs. He craned his scrawny neck to look round at Red Rufus, launching a glob of bloody spit at him. That was all it took to enrage the falconthrope, and he backhanded the Crow across the face.

  ‘Enough!’ said Drew, the Hawklord’s ways sitting uncomfortably with him. He knew there was no love lost between the birds of Riven and Windfell, and in Croke and Red Rufus he faced two therians who despised one another more than words could tell.

  Lord Reinhardt placed a hand on Red Rufus’s shoulder, pulling him away from the bound Crowlord, as Drew stepped up to the prisoner.

  ‘You would be wise not to anger Red Rufus, Croke. His temper matches his name.’

  ‘He’s a worn-out old sparrow who’s living in the past,’ the Crow chuckled through stained, crooked teeth. ‘The Hawklords’ time is over. The Barebones belong to my Crows, mark my words. You cannot halt the force beyond your walls any more than push water back up the Redwine!’

  ‘We may not be able to, Croke, but you can,’ said Drew, crouching before the man to look into his rheumy eyes. ‘I implore you: speak to the Ratlord and your sons who gather outside. Command them to retreat. Spare the people of Stormdale the suffering that your force meted out in Highwater.’

  ‘And why should I do that for you, Wolf cub?’

  ‘This city is no threat to you. The army’s broken, routed after your recent victory. Stormdale merely houses injured soldiers, women and children, old men just like yourself.’

  The Crowlord cackled once more, choking on his laughter.

  ‘There are no old men like me! I’m the oldest Werelord in all the Seven Realms. I’ve waited an eternity to see this day, when my enemies fall like skittles before me. At last I have a real army at my disposal, working alongside my brave men of Riven, and nothing will stand in our way. Certainly not the anguished, fear-soaked pleas of some whelp of Wergar, that’s for sure!’

  ‘Are you really so blinded by hate?’

  ‘Hate? Hate?’ spat the Crow, rocking in his chair, the chains rattling as his face contorted into a spiteful grin. ‘Don’t talk to me about hate, mongrel! Your father and all the Wolves before him looked down on my people for decade upon decade! You’ve sided with the Stags and Hawks time after time, never once listening to my petitions and complaints against the greedy, selfish scum who share my mountains!’

  He jerked his head in the direction of Reinhardt and Red Rufus, yellow spittle dribbling down his lips.

  ‘I’m listening now,’ said Drew.

  Croke laughed once more, his awful cawing echoing round the chamber and making Reinhardt wince.

  ‘You’re listening now, are you? When a mighty army is camped at your gates, waiting to put you to the sword? Your father would never have begged his enemies for anything, yet here you are, rolling over like the submissive pup you are.’

  Croke kicked the puddles that gathered around his feet, sending a spray of icy water over Drew. The young Wolflord tried to ignore the insult, while Red Rufus snarled behind the prisoner.

  ‘Let me wring ’is neck, my lord,’ said the Hawklord, grabbing the Crow by the jaw and twisting his liver-spotted face towards him. ‘How dare he speak to you this way!’

  ‘Release him, Red Rufus,’ said Drew, as the Hawklord’s hand flexed against the Crowlord’s fragile chin. ‘Let go of him!’

  Red Rufus released his hold with a shove, sending Croke’s head rocking forward as he continued to laugh.

  ‘I’m not Wergar,’ said Drew quietly. ‘I beseech you, Count Croke: call off your troops.’

  ‘I want to hear you beg, Wolf,’ hissed the Crow.

  Drew bit his lip, looking over Croke’s shoulder at his companions. Reinhardt’s face gave nothing away: this was Drew’s decision to make, although it was his people who were besieged. Red Rufus glowered, shaking his head.

  ‘Don’t do it, lad,’ said the Hawk. ‘This blackbird’s a trickster! He’s playing with you!’

  Drew looked back to the Crow, whose laughter had ceased. Croke’s wide, expectant eyes were shot with blood. ‘You’re kneeling, boy. You’re already halfway there!’

  ‘Leave Stormdale alone, I beg you,’ Drew whispered, his knees submerged in a chill pool of water.

  ‘Louder!’ shouted the Crow.

  ‘I beg you!’ Drew yelled, his voice stricken by heartfelt emotion.

  Croke nodded slowly, transformed suddenly into a benign old man.

  Is that what he wanted? Drew wondered. All he really needed?

  A softer smile spread across the Crowlord’s wizened features, his eyes half closing as he bobbed his head. Drew waited with bated breath, praying that his plea would be enough.

  ‘Never,’ said Croke contentedly.

  Drew staggered to his feet while Reinhardt struggled to restrain a spluttering Red Rufus. Croke broke into another fit of laughter, his grating cackles descending into a further bout of coughing. Drew turned slowly and walked towards the stairwell that led out of the cellar. The sound of the battle echoed down the stone steps, as the siege of Stormdale continued above.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Red Rufus, pulling free of Reinhardt’s grip and following Drew to the exit. ‘We can work this mangy bird over, pull out ’is feathers; impress upon ’im how vital it is he does what we demand!’

  Before Drew could answer, Croke was chiming in again.

  ‘I’d sooner die!’ he screeched, stamping his feet up and down as his chair threatened to topple over.

  ‘That can be arranged!’ the Hawklord shouted back.

  ‘I won’t allow you to torture him, Red Rufus,’ said Drew, his anger rising. ‘I don’t care what you’ve done in the past and I don’t want to hear another tale about what Wergar would’ve done.’

  ‘He’s still our prisoner,’ said Reinhardt, and the Staglord glanced back at the bound Crow who watched them intently. ‘Perhaps there’s some way we can use him on the battlements? Show him to Vorjavik, see if that in itself is enough to make them retreat? It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’ll do that,’ agreed Drew. ‘Whether the Crow likes it or not, we’ll show him to his comrades; see if that changes their mind. Perhaps the threat of us killing one of their own will be enough to send them away.’

  It was Red Rufus’s turn to laugh now.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ said Reinhardt, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘He said “the threat” – that’s all it is, isn’t it, lad? A hollow threat. You really wouldn’t want to hurt a feather on that old bird’s head?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Surely there’s another way?’ asked Drew.

  ‘I’ve told ya before, pup; there are some things ya have to do in war that’re unpleasant,’ said the Hawklord. He shook his head miserably. ‘There ain’t no fairness in this game, Wolf: it’s do – or die.’ Red Rufus trudged past him and set off up the staircase. ‘And right now, we’re dying!’

  1

  Cold Comfort

  The Boarguard stood in a huddle, surrounded by the Catlord’s soldiers. Tents were visible in every direction, a makeshift city of canvas and timber built by thousands of
men in the shadow of the Whitepeaks. The ringing of smiths’ hammers against steel was a constant reminder to every soldier: they were at war. Many were kitted out in the same livery, the Redcloaks of the Lionguard worn round the shoulders of Lyssian and Bastian alike. While the men of the Seven Realms could tolerate Sturmland’s bitter cold, the Bastian warriors from the jungle were faring less well. Not so long ago they’d marched into the Longridings, wearing little more than breastplates and bracers, full of confidence and composure. Now in the far north, they were experiencing a Lyssian winter for the first time and, judging by the miserable expressions on their faces, many did not like it.

  Of the eight Boarguard soldiers, two remained in the centre of the group, staying close to a steel drum of burning wood, while the other six, all Ugri warriors, remained unaffected by the cold. Ringlin and Ibal held their hands over the flames, willing the heat into their open palms. The journey from Vermire had been unpleasant, with the roads through the Badlands little more than rutted trails and quagmires. All the while the sleet had fallen, a steady drizzle of freezing rain that whipped at the flesh.

  Bizarrely, Hector had seemed at ease in the conditions, not once complaining during their five-day ride. Leading the group had been Captain Stephan, the braggart young nephew of Sheriff Muller, the Lord of the Badlands. His ceaseless boasting and brainless bravado had done nothing to win over the company of those he escorted, instead earning new enemies from the Boarguard. Hector had taken no notice of the fool. The Baron had sat in the saddle of the black charger he’d purloined from the Ratlords, head down and cloak drawn about him, apparently deep in thought and sharing little conversation with his companions. The Crowlord Flint, Onyx’s messenger bird, had accompanied them, ensuring that they found their way to the Beast of Bast’s camp. The young Baron had waited momentarily as the Crow entered the Werepanther’s tent to report in to his commander-in-chief, leaving Hector with Stephan for a few more tiresome moments. Eventually, they had called him through.

  Now Hector stood in the centre of an immense red rug, his boots swallowed up in the luxurious pile around them. Braziers stood within the tent, the burning coals ensuring that the temperature in the tent bore no resemblance to that in the frozen world outside. Onyx didn’t travel light: the grand interior was decked out with ephemera from his homeland, the stuffed heads and bleached skulls of strange beasts hanging from the canopied ceiling and walls. Chests, tables and chairs of the finest wood had been positioned around the tent, pearl and gold inlays shining as the firelight caught their detail. A giant four-poster bed, larger than most of the tents Hector had seen in the camp, was visible in an antechamber, while two enormous black cats lay sleeping at its foot. Even with so much to catch his attention, Hector’s eyes were drawn to the body face down on the floor.

  ‘Who was he?’ asked the Boarlord.

  ‘A scout from Sturmland,’ said Onyx, walking past the young magister. Hector felt his stomach roll at the sight of the Pantherlord, seven feet tall and seemingly as broad, his deep voice rumbling like a grinding portcullis. He wore a rich bearskin cloak, fastened around his throat by a thick gold chain, with the briefest glimpse of his enormous chest on show beneath its folds.

  ‘How close did he get to your camp, my lord?’

  ‘Close enough to make me think he wasn’t alone, magister,’ replied the giant Catlord, rolling the body over with a huge bare foot. The corpse’s eyes stared up at the ceiling, the exit wound from an arrow still gaping at his throat. His grey cloak was soaked in blood, and the pale leather breastplate beneath bore the outline of the white bear of Icegarden.

  ‘Do you fear they’ve got word of your actual number back to Duke Henrik?’

  ‘I fear nothing,’ said Onyx, matter-of-factly, turning his attention to Hector. ‘I only wish we’d caught one alive so we could question him about the White Bear’s capabilities. Sheriff Muller’s skirmishers are an undisciplined rabble; no doubt this scout’s companions heard them coming from a mile off – if a single Bastian warrior had been among Muller’s number we might have a Sturmlander to interrogate now.’

  He seeks to question a prisoner? You may be able to help him with that, brother, whispered the Vincent-vile at Hector’s shoulder, coiling around the magister’s throat like a spectral polecat.

  Lord Flint, the Crowlord, poured himself a goblet of wine at the rear of the chamber, the steady glug causing Hector to glance back at him. His shock of black hair rose around his crooked face, his eyes glaring straight at the Boar.

  Nobody trusts you, said Vincent. You might have traipsed all this way only to be executed! I told you not to come …

  ‘So,’ said the Catlord eventually, ‘I’ve heard much about you. Tell me, boy: why switch sides now? Weeks ago you were a member of this Wolf’s Council: why the change of heart?’

  Hector held his breath for a moment, composing himself. He had to convince Onyx that he was now on his side. The answer he gave could mean the difference between life and death.

  ‘The Wolf’s Council is meaningless – a collection of scared Werelords afraid to bend their knee before Lucas. We sided with the Wolf out of a sense of loyalty; I’d be lying if I said I didn’t at one time consider Drew Ferran a friend. But he changed from the boy I first met. As time passed he revealed himself to be incapable of carrying out his duty as a nobleman; his heart conflicted with his head. When his country needed him, he dashed off as swiftly as he could, all for Lady Gretchen.’

  Hector knew this was a half-truth. Although Drew had been uncomfortable with his new-found position of power, his decision to run away from his responsibilities hadn’t been selfish. His reasoning had been sound, and the young Wolflord had fled Highcliff with Hector’s blessing to chase after Gretchen, when the Fox had been abducted by Prince Lucas and his Lionguard. If Drew had rescued Gretchen and brought her safely home, who knew what might have come to pass? Only the end result had been grave for all, and now Hector needed to prove himself to Onyx. If that meant betraying the memory of his dear, departed friend, then so be it.

  ‘Odd,’ said the Pantherlord. ‘I’d have thought you’d consider such loyalty between friends admirable. Is that not the kind of attitude you Lyssians respect, holding it dear above others?’

  ‘Not when that attitude gets in the way of ruling a kingdom, my lord. It was a reckless, selfish act carried out by someone who cares nothing for the people of Lyssia. The sole remaining member of the Wolf’s Council, Duke Manfred, has yet to learn that the Wolf is not the saviour of the Seven Realms.’

  ‘The remaining member? You’re confident Manfred is the only one who still lives?’

  ‘Drew is lost; he has disappeared from the map, dead I suspect. Wasn’t his severed hand found in Cape Gala? He’s strong, but even I can’t imagine he survived such an injury. I killed the Sharklord, Vega, myself – buried a silver arrow in his guts and tossed him off his own ship, so yes; I’m confident.’

  ‘And Duke Bergan?’

  ‘Dead, I’m told, and buried beneath the rocks of Highcliff.’

  Onyx chuckled.

  This isn’t good …

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Hector, his voice breaking nervously.

  ‘Tell him,’ said Onyx, as Flint stepped forward.

  ‘Bergan lives.’

  Hector’s knees buckled slightly, causing his legs to wobble briefly before he straightened.

  Onyx noticed, his eyes widening. ‘You seem surprised?’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ gasped Hector. ‘How can that be? The cliffs buried him: it was witnessed by the Lionguard, was it not?’

  ‘It was,’ replied the Crow, supping from the goblet. ‘And yet he survived.’

  ‘How can you know for sure?’

  Flint polished off the drink and slammed the cup on to a table.

  ‘Our scouts have spotted him and a handful of companions making their way through the foothills of the Whitepeaks.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  ‘He might have been
crushed by a mountain, but it was him all right.’

  ‘What do you plan to do?’ asked Hector, unsettled by the news of the Bearlord’s survival. Bergan had been like an uncle to him throughout his childhood, a man he’d always strived to please but had disappointed as their relationship had broken apart. Alive?

  Onyx clenched his fist. ‘I’ll capture Bergan myself before he reaches Henrik’s fortress. He’s still some days away from the fortifications the White Bear has built in the mountains. The Duke of Sturmland has not been idle while war rages across Lyssia.’

  ‘Fortifications?’ said Hector. ‘I thought Henrik had abstained from the business of selecting a new king and planned to make Sturmland an independent realm once again.’

  ‘Whatever his plans, he’s prepared his people for war,’ said Onyx. ‘Wisely, I might add, because that’s what’s coming. However, there will be no separation from the Seven Realms. They will all swear fealty to the new king. They’ll bow before a Catlord once more.’

  ‘We’ve come across unexpected resistance in the Whitepeaks, and steely resolve from its inhabitants,’ added Flint. ‘I’ve flown over the land myself to see their work: their eyes are trained on the sky, searching for Crows. It’s impressive. Walls of wood and ice have been erected along the southern edge of the mountain range, enclosing the White Bear’s domain and providing his forces with additional protection. Even with our superior numbers we’re struggling to enter from the Badlands.’

  ‘How do you propose to capture Bergan?’ said Hector. ‘Clearly, he won’t go down without a fight.’

  ‘He’ll meet his match when I intercept his little band,’ sneered Onyx. ‘You Lyssian Werelords are no match for the therianthropes of Bast.’ He turned to Flint. ‘Ready fifty of our best light horsemen: we ride at once to capture this meddlesome Bear.’