Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Read online

  ‘Hold your fire!’ cried the lookout from the Lady’s Tower. ‘That’s a Hawklord!’

  Three arrows had already flown through the air from the Greycloak archers before they recognized that it wasn’t a Werecrow attempting to land within the Staglord castle. In his talons, the great falconthrope carried a figure, which hung limp in his grasp. As the red-feathered Werehawk beat his wings, the frosty air swirling with each stroke, the soldiers below cleared a space for him to land. The passenger suddenly came to life as he was dropped the remaining few feet, landing gracefully on the hard, snow-packed ground of the castle courtyard. He stood swiftly to his full height, dark green cloak flapping in the downdraught from the Hawklord’s wings as his companion landed beside him.

  The falconthrope was changing, the rusty-coloured feathers receding beneath the skin, his avian beak, wings and legs shifting to human features. He was an old bird, and his bald head bobbed as he shook the remaining features of the Hawk away, an angry scar carved down the left side of his face. In his hand he held a shortbow, an arrow nocked warily out of habit. The surrounding men of Stormdale remained equally suspicious, and a dozen arrows were trained on the two strangers who had arrived out of nowhere.

  A handful of figures emerged from the doors to the keep, marching across the courtyard towards the visitors. A tall man with a pronounced limp led the way, not letting the disability slow him down. He kicked up the snow as he strode forward, his stiff leg scuffing the icy ground as he approached. A grey cloak billowed at his back, the winter furs that trimmed it held tight around his throat. His long face was set in a serious frown as his hand rested on the pommel of a greatsword on his hip.

  ‘Who are you, that you should arrive unannounced in my city at such a late hour?’

  The stranger who had been carried into the castle stepped forward. He wore a studded leather breastplate that matched the shock of pitch-black hair that tumbled around his face. He raised his right hand to his chest, clenched in a fist, and knelt before the Staglord.

  ‘My name is Drew Ferran, last of the Grey Wolves, rightful king of Westland, and I am here to offer assistance, my lord.’

  The assembled nobles took a shocked step back from Drew, while the Greycloak archers shared a look of astonishment.

  ‘We thought you were dead!’ said the Staglord, dropping to his knee, quickly followed by the rest of the men. Drew saw the therian wince as he knelt, the maimed leg making the movement painful.

  ‘Far from it,’ said Drew, smiling from where he crouched. He rose, gesturing towards the Hawklord. ‘My companion is Red Rufus of Windfell.’

  ‘The Hawklords have returned?’ asked an elderly man as he pulled himself up the length of his gnarled staff. The hope was unmistakable in his voice.

  ‘They have, my lord,’ answered Drew. ‘Although I’m afraid they’re presently engaged in Omir.’

  ‘Fighting the Jackal?’ said another.

  ‘Fighting alongside the Jackal,’ corrected Red Rufus. ‘Seems the Catlords aren’t content with waging war in the west: they’ve sided with the Doglords, ain’t they? Apparently this makes the Jackal our ally all of a sudden.’

  The Hawklord spat on the ground contemptuously.

  ‘Some of the Hawklords have long memories,’ said Drew, eyeing Red Rufus disapprovingly. ‘It’ll take time for them to realize that this war affects the whole of Lyssia. Until the battle for Azra is concluded – hopefully with our victory – we cannot count upon the help of the Hawks. Except for this one.’

  Red Rufus jutted out his scrawny chin defiantly.

  The limping Staglord stepped forward and took Drew’s hand in his own, giving it a firm shake.

  ‘I’m Reinhardt, son of Manfred, and may I say you’re a most welcome addition to our number. Come, walk with me to the keep.’

  Drew and Red Rufus both fell in with the nobles as the Greycloaks returned to the walls. A quick look around the fortress told Drew that the Stags of the Barebones had taken a beating. Many of the men were walking wounded, bandages visible beneath their cloaks, dressings binding their heads and limbs. The route the Hawklord had taken had given them a fine aerial view of the city’s defences. Although Stormdale was a city, it was tiny in comparison to the giants of Highcliff, Cape Gala, even the island of Scoria. Stormdale bore more resemblance to Windfell, a fortified stronghold high in the mountains with a tiny town between the outer wall and the keep wall, crowded with civilian homes. The outer wall here had looked woefully undermanned as Drew had flown over, and having seen the growing army beyond the gates, the possibilities filled him with dread.

  ‘How did you discover our plight?’ asked Reinhardt as they strode into the keep, Red Rufus already deep in conversation with the staff-carrying elder at their back.

  ‘A young Stag arrived at Windfell, just after the Hawklords had taken flight. Lord Milo: he’s your brother, correct?’

  ‘He got there safely?’ Reinhardt seemed both relieved and angry. ‘Foolish boy. I commanded him to stay put, but would he listen? He rode out of here as our forces returned to the city, the Rats and Crows right behind us. Said he needed to send out word, fetch help.’

  ‘He succeeded,’ said Drew. ‘Though only two answered the call.’

  Reinhardt clapped Drew’s back and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

  ‘I’m indebted to you already because you found my headstrong sibling in one piece.’

  ‘Not quite in one piece,’ said Drew, loosening the Staglord’s grip. ‘It seems the enemy gave chase when he fled here, and their arrows found their mark. He arrived in Windfell alive, but only just. We left him recovering in capable hands.’

  Reinhardt scratched his jaw. ‘My brother lives when many of our Staglord brethren were slain in Highwater. This means some joy for my mother, regardless of the horror that surrounds us.’

  ‘What news of your father, Duke Manfred?’ asked Drew as the group passed through a corridor that thrummed with activity. He noticed many serving staff within the halls, but alarmingly few soldiers.

  ‘None has reached us. We received word that he was aboard the Maelstrom sailing from Highcliff when the city was attacked, but since then no word has arrived home. We pray to Brenn that he is safe.’

  ‘Your father was kind to me, Lord Reinhardt. He took me under his wing in Westland, showed me what it meant to be a lord and a therianthrope. He’s a wise man, and I share your prayers.’

  ‘I thank you, and offer you the same for your loved ones. Your mother, Queen Amelie, accompanied him on board Count Vega’s ship, and Baron Hector, the Boarlord of Redmire.’

  Drew’s heart soared with the news that so many of his friends might still be alive. He’d almost given up hope of ever seeing them again, but word that they’d safely escaped Highcliff when the Bastians and Doglords had attacked was music to his ears.

  ‘To know they’ve escaped Highcliff is enough for me, my lord. Have faith. If your father was with Vega, Hector and my mother, he was in good company.’

  The group entered a square hall within the heart of the keep; the throne room of Duke Manfred, Drew assumed. A tall arched window filled the eastern wall, a stag and an eagle straddling a mighty mountain in stained glass, lit presently by torchlight from the ramparts outside.

  ‘Ah,’ said Red Rufus with a sigh. ‘Stags and Hawks, side by side: guardians of the Barebones. That was always the way, wasn’t it? Before the Lion came calling …’

  ‘It can be so again,’ said the elder with the staff. ‘I speak for all the people of these mountains when I voice my relief that the Hawklords yet live.’

  The Werehawk grimaced.

  Drew hoped that Red Rufus could hold his tongue. The falconthrope had made no secret of his displeasure at the actions of the old Werelords when King Wergar the Wolf, Drew’s father, had been overthrown. While the Stags, the Bearlord and the other Lords of the Seven Realms had bent their knee and sworn fealty to the conquering King Leopold, the Hawks had resisted. As punishment, the king had severed the win
gs of their leader Baron Griffyn and turned them all out of Windfell, exiling the Hawklords and forbidding them from ever embracing their therian forms again, on punishment of death. The wounds were still raw for many of the Hawklords, even after all these years.

  Drew spoke quickly before the Hawklord could insult their hosts.

  ‘I notice that your walls seem undermanned, my lords. Where is your army?’

  Reinhardt dipped his head as he sat on a table in the hall, the other therians gathering around him. The old man cleared his throat to speak, allowing the younger Staglord a moment to compose himself.

  ‘Highwater was overrun after a siege that lasted for a month. The city had little time to prepare for the attack, the Catlords having timed their offensive to perfection, coordinating it with their attack upon Highcliff. Although Stormdale is our ancient capital, Highwater is – was – a strong city, built to be the cornerstone of the Staglords’ land in the Barebones. It was from Highwater that we traded with our cousins in the west, as Earl Mikkel commanded control over the Redwine River and all who sailed up and down it from the mountains. Our military might was almost entirely stationed there, and the Greycloaks called it home. We thought we could withstand anything …’ The old man trailed off, his voice disappearing to a whisper.

  ‘Magister Siegfried is right,’ said Reinhardt. ‘It wasn’t so bad when we only faced the Rats and the Bastians. Then Count Croke sent the Crows to their aid. He’d been busy too. Not only did a large contingent of foot soldiers arrive from Riven, but the old Crow also sent war machines that could be used to break our defences and overpower the walls. He knew our stronghold better than any other Werelord; he’d looked down upon it for decades, hungering for control of Highwater and the Redwine. With the men and the siege engines came the Werecrows themselves, a score of his sons, adding another element to the battle: wings.’

  Red Rufus’s laugh was grim. ‘The Crows know nothing of death from above. We Hawklords would’ve taught ’em a thing or two.’

  ‘If only you’d been there, my lord,’ said Reinhardt respectfully. ‘Twenty of them took to the air, carrying their forces over our defences, dropping their finest warriors into our midst as we struggled to hold the walls. The battle was fought on many fronts, and lost on every one.’

  Reinhardt rubbed his right thigh at the mention of the battle. Drew noticed.

  ‘Is that where you sustained your injury?’

  ‘A silver Vermirian arrow: they’re well-equipped, no doubt provisioned by the Catlords.’ Reinhardt gestured to Drew’s missing hand with a nod of the head. ‘You’ve been injured yourself, I see? Did the Lion take your paw?’

  ‘That was self-inflicted,’ said Drew, shuddering as he recalled his escape from Cape Gala, when he had been forced to bite off his own hand to escape his chains. ‘It was lose the hand or lose my life.’

  ‘Did the old Crow show his face?’ asked Red Rufus, redirecting the conversation back to their present predicament.

  ‘No,’ said the old magister, Siegfried. ‘Croke has remained in Riven throughout, leaving the dirty work to his sons. Why put himself in harm’s way? He no doubt intends to march into Highwater and then Stormdale once the fighting’s finished, to claim the Barebones for his own.’

  ‘He has one fewer son to worry about, if that’s any consolation,’ said Drew. ‘Lord Rook had been whispering words of poison into King Faisal’s ear in Azra for many months. It appears the Crows had their designs on Windfell also. He met his end at the Screaming Peak of Tor Raptor.’

  Reinhardt managed a strained smile. ‘Morsels of good news.’

  ‘It was at some cost,’ added Drew. ‘Baron Griffyn was killed by him on the mountain.’

  ‘Then who commands the Hawklords now?’ asked Siegfried.

  ‘Count Carsten and Baron Baum,’ said Red Rufus proudly. ‘The Eagles of the Barebones. If anyone can lead my people back to glory, it’s the brothers.’

  Drew rapped his fingers on a table, considering the situation.

  ‘What is it?’ said Reinhardt.

  ‘The army beyond your walls: which Werelord commands it?’

  ‘Lord Scree, a Crow, but he’s only holding the front line until the real force arrives. The war engines roll ever closer.’

  ‘And who leads them?’

  ‘Lord Vorjavik, the Ratlord: War Marshal of Westland.’

  Drew blanched at the mention of the Wererats. He’d had run-ins with the Rat King before, having fought both Vanmorten and Vankaskan in single combat. The former he’d maimed, the latter he’d killed; but both battles had been hard won. If this one was the real warrior of the family, he didn’t relish the prospect of facing him in battle. Perhaps it might not come to that?

  ‘I’d estimate that there are around a thousand out there,’ said Drew. ‘How many do you expect in the second wave?’

  The Werelords looked at one another, their faces pale. They looked back at Drew.

  ‘Many, many more,’ said Siegfried.

  ‘And how many men do you number here in Stormdale?’

  ‘Around eight hundred,’ replied Reinhardt.

  ‘I saw the condition of some of your troops in the courtyard. How many are battle fit?’

  Reinhardt didn’t speak, his answer coming in the form of a sorry shake of the head.

  Drew turned and walked over to Red Rufus, who was biting his nails anxiously, staring up at the stained-glass window.

  ‘This ain’t good at all, pup,’ whispered the scarred old Hawk quietly. ‘You might be able to hold the walls if your force was strong. This’ll be a bloodbath.’

  Drew scratched his head, glancing over his shoulder to the weary noblemen. Only Reinhardt looked as though he was prepared for a fight: the rest looked ready for death.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Drew. ‘The civilian population: how many do they number?’

  ‘In Stormdale?’ said Siegfried. ‘There are two thousand within our walls. They’re peasant folk, farmers and the like. They’re just old men, women and children.’

  ‘Can they hold a bow? Can they wear a cloak?’

  Reinhardt nodded, realizing where the young Wolflord was heading, but Siegfried shook his head disapprovingly.

  ‘You cannot expect them to fight. They’re simple humans,’ said the old magister.

  Drew smiled, praying that his confidence was infectious.

  ‘Simple humans?’ he said. ‘In my experience, there’s no such thing.’

  3

  The Vagabond Court

  Hooves clattered on the frozen earth, warning those ahead to stand aside. The crowd of Romari travellers parted as the three horses beat a path through their encampment. Tents and caravans made up the majority of the refugee camp, while some of the hardier souls slept under the clear, cold sky. Only when the leading horse reached the fire-pit that marked the camp’s heart did the lone rider finally rein in, the two riderless mounts slowing to a halt close behind.

  Whitley slid down out of Chancer’s saddle, landing gracefully while glancing around the small Romari camp. There were nearly two hundred gathered here; the exodus of people from the battle in Cape Gala had left thousands fleeing the Bastians and Lionguard throughout the Longridings. They all shared the same concerns: why had the invaders come? How soon might their world return to normal? While the Horselords of Cape Gala had ridden to Calico in the south, seeking refuge in the city of Duke Brand the Bull, others had sought safety elsewhere. The Romari had returned to the road.

  Chancer snorted at Whitley’s touch as she patted him across the nose. Two stable boys stepped up, keen to take the horses from the young lady of Brackenholme. Whitley quickly unhitched the rope that had kept the mount of the slain Lionguard tethered to Chancer, allowing one of the youths to lead them away. She ruffled Chancer’s mane affectionately before handing the other stablehand the reins. The boy saluted Whitley as he departed, and the young woman nodded awkwardly back. She wasn’t used to this level of respect. In addition to the Romari, their group consis
ted of a handful of soldiers from the Woodland Watch who had survived the ambush by Prince Lucas’s men in Cape Gala. As the only daughter of Duke Bergan, the Bearlord of Brackenholme, Whitley was accustomed to the various customs and etiquette of court life and the fact that people looked to her for moral guidance. But since they had fled the Horselord city, Whitley had taken on more responsibility, not just as a Werelady within their motley band, but also as a soldier. Captain Harker, commander of the Watch, had no doubts whatsoever about her abilities, the fledgling scout having worked for him in the Badlands before her flight from Highcliff with Drew. When her dear brother, Broghan, had been murdered in Cape Gala, the Greencloaks had been left without a liege lord to direct them. Harker had held such high respect for her that this had led to his soldiers looking to her as a figure of authority. As Whitley was more accustomed to travelling solo or with a single partner in the Watch, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the notion.

  Unclasping her green riding cloak, she made her way to the fire’s edge where her companions were gathered. A serving girl came to take it from her, and Whitley smiled politely, letting the girl know in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t be handing it over. She was one of the few remaining Greencloaks who had travelled south; the garment had survived her myriad scrapes and battles, and she wasn’t about to be parted from it now.

  ‘You’ll be putting the girl out of work, cousin,’ said Lady Gretchen as Whitley approached, rising from where she’d been seated. The Werefox had no qualms about the Romari doing work for her, no matter how menial the task.

  ‘I’m not so infirm that I need someone to take my cloak, Gretchen,’ said the scout, embracing her red-haired friend. It never ceased to amaze Whitley how stunning the girl from Hedgemoor could appear. Gretchen had been through a hellish ordeal, as bad if not worse than any of them. Kidnapped by the unhinged Werelion Prince Lucas, and tormented by the wicked Wererat Vankaskan, she’d endured horrors that might have sent a weaker spirit over the edge. Somehow, she had come up smiling. Stuck in the middle of the Longridings, hundreds of miles from the nearest bath and mirror, Gretchen still managed to look as though she was entertaining courtiers. Whitley glanced down at her own attire: filthy jerkin and riding boots, pitted from the road. She didn’t even want to think about the state of her hair.