Rage of Lions Page 2

  ‘What kept you?’ asked Earl Mikkel, Lord of Highwater and younger brother of Manfred. The Werestag was standing over a round table in the centre of the council chamber, leafing through reams of documents. At his shoulder stood Hector, the young Boarlord and heir to the seat of Redmire. He held a writing slate, attached to which was a scroll. A quill scribbled away as he took notes on the business of the day. Hector was the youngest member of the Wolf’s Council. His early years in the Lion’s Court as an apprentice magister had equipped him with enough knowledge of the Seven Realms to make him invaluable as they tried to rebuild old alliances within the scattered and fractured realms. Admittedly, he’d been under the tutelage of the vile Wererat Vankaskan, Leopold’s inquisitor, whose own take on magistry had included the practising of the outlawed dark arts. It was a relief to Bergan that Hector had come through the other side of his apprenticeship having dodged these old magicks, concentrating instead on healing and medicine craft.

  ‘More pardons to hear,’ grumbled the Bearlord, striding up to the table and pouring himself a goblet of water. He gulped it down.

  ‘Thirsty work those stairs, aren’t they?’

  Bergan turned at the voice, looking towards an open window. Count Vega sat on the sill, back against the stone frame as he chomped on the remainder of an apple. Left with just the core in his hand he smacked his lips before tossing it out of the window. He smiled brightly, showing rows of pristine white teeth, a reminder of the Sharklord’s bestial nature.

  ‘Nice to see you’ve risen from your pit, Vega,’ said the Bearlord, dismissing the Wereshark and turning back to the table. The count made no attempt to join the others, instead relaxing where he sat and looking out over Highcliff.

  ‘If you’ve nothing for me to attend to I see no reason in rising before noon, Bergan. Or is it simply that you don’t trust me to do anything? I believe I’m still part of this little gang, am I not?’

  Hector glanced up at the Bearlord whose face reddened.

  ‘Count Vega,’ said Mikkel, his tone polite but forced. ‘You’ve been invited to attend every meeting of the council since it was formed a month ago. Of the daily meetings we’ve had in that short time I can count on one hand the number you’ve attended. Surely you can appreciate that some of us might be slightly irritated by that fact?’

  ‘Oh, I do. But as the Wolf’s sea marshal …’

  ‘Acting Sea Marshal,’ corrected Bergan gruffly.

  ‘As the Wolf’s sea marshal,’ continued Vega, pointedly, ‘land problems are of little importance to my field of governance. It would be a waste of my attention to have me reviewing the arguments of bickering farmers and market stallholders. No, I’m happy to delegate my vote – just add my name to yours, however you choose to go. You chaps seem to know what you’re doing.’

  Bergan snarled, his patience with the Sharklord worn thin. He punched a fist into the table, causing them all to jump. Hector stared in shock as the fist grew, knuckles crunching against one another as it began to transform into a paw. Bergan’s shoulders expanded, the Bearlord’s muscles swelling beneath his cloak. His face darkened, ruddy features shifting to a swarthier brown flesh, his teeth now shining from within his beard, sharp and white.

  ‘You think to mock me, Shark? You forget yourself and who you speak to!’

  He took a step towards Vega, batting away Mikkel’s attempts to restrain him. Hector watched, helpless. Vega’s transformation was swift and measured, the Sharklord welcoming the monster within. His torso rippled beneath his white shirt, chest ready to tear free, while his hands and fingers greyed over, sharp and deadly. Vega’s mouth widened, revealing his own set of terrible teeth, as he faced the enraged Bearlord. His eyes blinked, black as the night.

  ‘My Lords,’ gasped Hector as the two partly changed therians faced one another. Even the Staglord had begun to change, readying himself to leap between the two Werelords if need be. The atmosphere was broken when the door swung open once more as Lord Broghan entered the room.

  ‘Father?’ he said, his voice thick with concern at the sight of the two ready for battle. Bergan turned suddenly, instantly distracted by his son. He breathed hard, panting, as he reined the beast in, Vega doing likewise. The two Werelords looked warily at one another as their features returned to normality.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked the young Bearlord. ‘Have I interrupted something?’

  ‘Everything is fine,’ said Bergan, drawing his glare away from Vega to stride over and embrace his son. The Sharklord sat down again on the window sill, his composure returned.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Father.’

  ‘And you, son,’ replied Bergan, clapping his back. ‘Happy hunting?’

  Broghan quickly shook hands with Mikkel and Hector and threw a cursory nod towards Vega. The Wereshark waved lazily, bored with them, before turning his attention back to the view. The four Werelords pulled up chairs to sit down at the table.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said the young Bearlord. ‘We caught a couple of the Lion’s men down at the harbour, trying to hire a ship, but still no sign of the prince.’

  Bergan ground his teeth. There had been a number of sightings of Prince Lucas since the siege began, too many to be mistaken identities. The council had given Broghan the task of investigating, his men chasing every lead that arose, interviewing citizens and rounding up the Lionsguard stragglers who were still in hiding.

  ‘Do you think he’s still here?’ asked Mikkel.

  ‘It’s a week since he was last sighted,’ said Bergan. ‘Perhaps he’s out of the city by now?’

  ‘Well there’ve been any number of opportunities to leave,’ said Broghan. ‘Curfew or not, Highcliff still has to run just like any city. People need to work and trade – this is one of the busiest ports in Lyssia – and blind spots are bound to occur. We can have guards on the gates and docks every day and night, but the occasional deserter, like the one the other week, will get through. The net will only catch so many.’

  ‘I only hope the occasional ones don’t include Leopold’s boy,’ growled Bergan. ‘He’s worth too much to us. If he is out here and isn’t hiding in the keep with his father, then he might be just the bargaining tool we need to end this siege. If I know anything about Leopold, I know he adores his son more than anything in the Seven Realms. He’s spoiled that child throughout his life, granting his every desire – if we could get our hands on him today we’d have Leopold by tonight.’

  ‘Speaking of Lucas’s every desire,’ said Mikkel. ‘What are we going to do about Gretchen?’

  Duke Bergan sighed and scratched his beard: back to the Werefox problem. She was the most eligible woman in Lyssia, months away from taking her family seat of Hedgemoor, one of the wealthiest of the old Werelord houses. Earl Gaston, the Werefox’s late father, had traded widely across the Seven Realms, building a vast fortune that had funded many of the Wolf’s – and the Lion’s – campaigns. Gretchen stood to inherit this fortune, and there were many who suspected that Leopold had murdered Gaston in order to hasten his son’s marriage to the girl.

  Gretchen was staying with Bergan in Traitors’ House, widely considered the safest place for her, but he wasn’t entirely happy about the situation, and for two very good reasons.

  ‘You know my feelings, Mikkel. I’m fond of the girl – we all are – but Highcliff isn’t a safe place for her, not as long as this siege continues. I’d be happier knowing that she was far from the walls of this city. Furthermore her presence still acts as a distraction to Drew.’

  Broghan and Mikkel nodded in agreement while Hector remained silent.

  ‘For Sosha’s sake,’ said Vega from the window. ‘Let them have their fun. They’re only young once.’

  Bergan shook his head, dismissing him.

  ‘A feckless, misspent youth may not have done you much harm, Vega, but that’s no way to raise the future monarch. He needs guidance now more than ever. Like it or not, the attention Lady Gretchen has paid to Drew can’t be hel
pful. He should be listening to his tutors, like myself and Manfred. Instead he’s mooning after the girl like a lovesick pup. No, we need to step in and end this now.’

  ‘They may well be fond of one another,’ agreed Broghan. ‘But there’s a time and place for courtship, and this is neither.’

  Bergan noticed Hector raise a hand tentatively, still unused to speaking at the Wolf’s Council.

  ‘Say your piece, lad. There’s no need to be shy – you’re among equals now: brothers together. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I just wanted to say –’ Hector cleared his throat with a cough. Bergan had noticed that the young Boarlord had a habit of gripping his left hand in his right when anxious, massaging the palm with his thumb. He collected his nerves as all eyes settled on him. ‘It’s worth mentioning that strictly speaking Lady Gretchen is still betrothed to Prince Lucas. Working for Vankaskan for the last five years, I got to know the prince. Not as a friend, more as a spectator – I’ve seen his anger first hand.’

  He dropped his head, shame weighing heavy on him.

  ‘I’ve been on the receiving end of his beatings and witnessed his tantrums. I know what fires his passion. Gretchen fires his passion.’

  The men all considered this silently for a moment. Finally Bergan clapped his hands together.

  ‘Then it’s decided. If Lucas is still on the loose and there’s some truth in these sightings, we can’t take any chances. We’ll send her away, somewhere safe. Perhaps Hedgemoor – get her used to being back home and taking her responsibilities to her people seriously. It’d be good for the girl. Plus she’d be surrounded by her own people there – her father was about as loved as any ruler across the Dalelands, and there’s a lot of goodwill waiting for her there.’

  ‘We need to keep her there until we break Leopold,’ added Mikkel. ‘Once this business with the Lion and his cronies is dealt with we can think about the future. If Lady Gretchen and Drew are destined to be together, time will tell, but there’s no call for haste in this matter. What will be, will be.’

  ‘Wise words, Staglord,’ said Vega, getting down from the window sill and stretching. ‘Now, if you’ve no more need of me today, there’s a game of bones with my name on it in the Robber’s Arms.’

  ‘Do you really think it’s appropriate, Vega, to gamble with commoners in the city’s drinking dens? That’s hardly the behaviour one would expect from a Werelord, even one with a past as chequered as yours.’ Bergan shook his head.

  ‘I know what I’m doing. You forget, Bergan, these people in the taverns – sailors, dockers and mercenaries – they’re my people. If you want an ear to the ground picking up information fresh from the gutter, be it a threat to the Wolf or a prince in hiding, then – no disrespect to the splendid work of Broghan – I’m your man.’

  The Wereshark winked at the young Bearlord. Broghan smiled back.

  ‘Each to his own, Vega. I’ll stick to my methods: following leads, knocking on doors, chasing tip-offs. You continue with yours: throwing bones and downing brandy. They seem to suit you.’

  Vega bowed elaborately before the Wolf’s Council and walked to the door, waving over his shoulder dismissively.

  ‘Happy hunting, as they say.’

  And with that, he was gone.

  ‘Dear Brenn!’ muttered Mikkel, shaking his head and relaxing now the count had departed ‘Remind me again why he’s on this council? I’ve not seen him do an honest day’s work since the siege began.’

  ‘He has his uses,’ sighed Bergan, nodding in agreement. ‘Can he be trusted? I don’t know. But he stepped up when we needed him. He was one more Werelord who stood up against Leopold on the scaffold, so he’s earned the right to call himself a member of the council. To the untrained eye his actions look suspiciously like those of a booze-ridden gambler. But what do I know?’

  The others all burst into laughter. The atmosphere brightened with the absence of the count, as they settled back to business.

  ‘Has my daughter returned yet?’ asked Bergan.

  ‘No, and she’s overdue,’ replied Broghan, lips drawn tight.

  Bergan couldn’t hold back a low growl. Lady Whitley was proving a handful. He’d tried sending her back to Brackenholme on numerous occasions since the siege had begun, but she’d dodged and sidestepped at every turn. Lady Rainier, her mother, patiently awaited the return of her family; the least Bergan could do was return their daughter to her. There was also the matter of Whitley’s scoutmaster, Hogan, waiting for her, ready to continue lessons upon her return. Instead of following her father’s requests she’d managed to go out with all sorts of military patrols as a scout, fully trained or not.

  ‘Whose command is she under? Which patrol?’

  ‘Father,’ said Broghan calmly. ‘Try not to worry, she’s due back any day. She scouts for the army along Grimm’s Lane to the north. Since the Lion was unseated there’s been unrest in the rat city of Vermire. If any conflict occurs she’ll be far from it, I assure you: Harker is in command. Furthermore as long as she’s out there working alongside them, doing the job of a scout, then she’s still training. One cannot beat field experience.’

  Bergan grumbled under his breath.

  ‘I worry. I cannot help it. She’s my daughter for Brenn’s sake. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything were to happen to her. It pleases me to know that Captain Harker watches over her, but still; make sure you have her assigned under your direct command upon her return. Keep her close, son.’

  Broghan nodded, keenly aware of how his father felt about Whitley.

  ‘Hector,’ continued the Bearlord. ‘Have we had any word back from our more distant lords and ladies?’

  One of the first actions of the Wolf’s Council had been to send word to every corner of Lyssia. Tradition dictated that if a new monarch took the throne, each reigning Werelord was to be consulted. A majority decision was enough to ensure the next step – coronation.

  ‘Not as many as we’d hoped, my lord,’ replied the young Boar. He unrolled a large map on the table, taking the goblets and decanter of water to weigh down each corner. His stubby fingers pointed out each of the Seven Realms. ‘The lesser Werelords who were present at the failed marriage of Lucas and Gretchen are with us, but the major lords of Lyssia have yet to respond. Nothing from Sturmland or the Longridings; the only approval from the Barebones is obviously that of Stormdale. And no word from Omir, but then that could be expected.’

  ‘I can’t speak for the other lords of the Barebones,’ added Mikkel. ‘But perhaps if I returned home and left Manfred here I might be able to bring our neighbours into line. This could be just the business to thaw our relations with the Crows of Riven. My brother can remain here by your side, Bergan, strengthening your hand should the need arise.’

  ‘That seems like a sound idea,’ said the Bearlord. ‘Although I have to say I’m disturbed not to have heard word back from those other realms. The least they could have done was send acknowledgement, even if they don’t approve of Drew’s claim.’

  He’d known all along that they would have a struggle in persuading other Werelords to show their allegiance to a new king, especially one whose lineage could be thrown into question. Detractors were already saying that Drew was the illegitimate son of Wergar and shouldn’t be allowed near the throne. Regardless of the support the young Wolf had experienced in Westland it was going to be tough to persuade those further afield to bow to his blade.

  ‘Sturmland I hoped might have sent word by now. I know my cousin Henrik and I haven’t seen eye to eye in recent years, but something as momentous as a new king should have awoken the White Bear. Perhaps he’s asleep on his horde of gems and fancies keeping it to himself now the Lion is dethroned.

  ‘The Longridings is curious; Duke Lorimer, the Horselord, used to be a staunch ally of Wergar’s. Why go silent now when the Wolf’s heir has made himself known? And Brand and Ewan – their silence disturbs me. We need to send a diplomatic party down there as soon as is possible.<
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  ‘And Omir? That’s a different beast altogether. It’s not one of the Seven Realms and Leopold never brokered an alliance with them. Who would argue against King Faisal? The Lion always wanted obedience from the Jackal but never got it – niggling skirmishes have continued for years. Faisal wouldn’t swear fealty to the Catlord, but perhaps he can find common ground with a fellow canine? Maybe with a Wolf on the throne all of Lyssia can finally be reunited – if we secured Omir then the rest would follow suit.’

  ‘It may not be as easy as that,’ said Mikkel. ‘Rumour reached the Barebones that there is civil war in Omir. Faisal may be king of the Desert Realm, but he faces stiff competition from his neighbours. Lord Canan and his Doglords grow in strength and number, their forces holding all the land to the north of the Silver River. With Lady Hayfa holding the lands to the south, Faisal is surrounded by those who want his city, his throne and his crown. If the rumours are to be believed, I suspect he’ll be too busy with his domestic affairs to worry about what happens on this side of the Barebones.’

  ‘Regardless,’ said Bergan. ‘We need to inform him and the other abstaining Werelords of the situation; an alliance with us could only help Faisal’s cause in Omir.’

  Bergan turned to his son.

  ‘We’ll send more messengers and I’ll handwrite the scrolls myself this time; one each to Faisal in Azra, Lorimer in Cape Gala and Henrik in Icegarden. I’ll remind them of how the balance lies, how close we are to a prosperous new future if we can unite together behind Drew. Old differences can be put to one side, so there’s a fresh start for all.’

  He smiled, confident. He could be very persuasive when he put his mind to it, and his mind was set.

  ‘Talking of our future king, where is he?’ said Broghan.

  ‘Still with my brother at Buck House, enjoying his morning drills,’ Mikkel answered.