Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 3

  ‘But this is Court, Whitley. Everyone has their part to play.’

  ‘This is a field, Gretchen. Everyone shares the work.’

  ‘What a quaint view of the world, cousin,’ said the Werefox, dismissing the comment instantly. ‘There is a natural order, Whitley, one which we must adhere to. I don’t ask people to serve me for the fun of it. It is simply the way, and we all have our roles to fulfil, however tiresome. I, for example, have to shoulder the burden of nobility and the many responsibilities that come with it. Sharing the work?’ Gretchen shook her head. ‘Drew Ferran has an awful lot to answer for, filling your head with such nonsense.’

  Whitley stared at the other girl for a moment, a heartbeat away from an irritated outburst. Common sense told her to hold her tongue, just as a traitorous smirk appeared at the corner of Gretchen’s perfect lips.

  ‘You jest, cousin,’ sighed Whitley, rolling her eyes at the Werefox’s teasing sense of humour.

  Gretchen laughed, kissing Whitley on the cheek and giggling just like her old self.

  ‘It’s so good to have you back. Come, sit down; get something to drink. You look exhausted.’

  The Romari had nicknamed them the Vagabond Court, which was apt. While their camp now consisted of a couple of hundred Romari, until a fortnight ago they had travelled with the great and the good of the Longridings, the Horselords and their followers. Lord Conrad, the young Werestallion who had led the defence against the Lionguard and the Bastians in Cape Gala, had tried to persuade Whitley and Gretchen to join them in Calico, but the girls wouldn’t be swayed. They preferred to take their chances in the north and travel to Brackenholme, as safe a refuge as any.

  While the Romari nation had gathered somewhere in the northern Longridings, the Vagabond Court had sworn to accompany them through the grasslands. Calling themselves the People of the Wolf, the Romari felt it an honour to escort the ladies, Drew’s dearest friends, to the Woodland Realm. Few in Lyssia knew the Dymling Road better than the Romari.

  The Court consisted of an unusual bunch. The two Wereladies were the natural leaders, even if their age suggested otherwise. Captain Harker of Brackenholme’s army had the final say on all military matters, while his companions, Quist and Tristam, kept a constant vigil around the camp. The old sword-swallower Stirga was the spokesperson for the Romari, with the fire-eater and strongman Yuzhnik at his side. Both circus performers had found a new calling in leading their people. The last member of the Vagabond Court was Baba Korga, the ancient wise woman and soothsayer who had shown such kindness to Whitley when she had feared all had been lost in the battle of Cape Gala. Her mute guardian, Rolff, was always at her side to do her bidding.

  They all sat together now around a fire. Whitley picked up a pitcher of water, pouring herself a cup before settling beside the others. As she sat, she winced with the sting of her wounds from the Lionguard weapons.

  ‘You look unwell, my lady. What ails you?’ asked Baba Korga. The old woman sat close to the fire, Rolff at her shoulder.

  Whitley had taken Chancer out into the grasslands on a four-day scouting mission, checking the enemy hadn’t followed their trail. The Romari were a cunning bunch, knowing unmarked roads through the Longridings. Avoiding the Dymling Road and travelling through the long grasses, they had picked a route that would bring them out at the Dyrewood’s edge, close to the point where the old road entered it. She had encountered the Lionguard scouts two days previously, and the skirmish had taken its toll on her; taking another’s life wasn’t getting any easier. Though her therian healing had begun to repair her wounds, she had remained dogged by physical discomfort while her mind repeatedly replayed the grim events, tormenting her.

  ‘You may have noticed that I returned with more horses than I left with,’ Whitley replied, to all around the fire.

  ‘It wasn’t lost on me,’ said Harker. ‘I was about to ask. Redcloaks?’

  ‘A pair of them, scouts I believe.’

  ‘Only two?’ asked Gretchen, obviously concerned by the possibility that the Lionguard might discover their whereabouts.

  ‘Just the two, and they’re enjoying the long sleep now. They thought it’d be an idea to use me as a whetstone and a pincushion. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine; the blood of my forefathers has seen to my recovery.’

  ‘Therianthrope or not, I’ll take a look at those wounds later,’ muttered Harker, his paternal side shining through as usual. ‘And the larger Lionguard force?’

  ‘No sign,’ Whitley answered, ‘although the fires still burn across the Longridings. It appears they’ve concentrated their efforts on hunting the Horselords. No doubt they’ve moved on to Calico by now. I only hope Duke Brand’s defences can hold them at bay.’

  ‘Calico’s a mighty city,’ said Harker. ‘The moat alone would be impassable for any army, let alone her enormous walls. The Horselords are in a safe place.’

  ‘It appears our plan has worked thus far,’ said Stirga. ‘The sooner we are beneath the boughs of the Dyrewood, the better. The nights in the Longridings have been unkind to us.’ He shivered involuntarily.

  Whitley looked up from her cup. ‘Unkind? Has it struck again?’

  ‘A girl went missing last night; seven years old,’ replied the sword-swallower.

  ‘How many is that now?’

  ‘A dozen since we left Cape Gala.’

  ‘Twelve too many,’ said Gretchen sadly.

  The attacks had started when the Horselords still accompanied them. Everyone knew that the Longridings were home to many large predators, including bears and wolves. Whatever the beast was that had been creeping into their camp to abduct the youngsters, it had clearly followed the Romari since they’d parted with the Horselords. Four children had been taken in the previous two weeks, stolen from their beds while their families slept, with not a trace left behind.

  ‘The monster strikes swiftly and silently,’ said Stirga, poking the fire with his rapier and sending tiny sparks up into the air.

  ‘But didn’t we post more guards along the camp perimeter?’

  ‘We did,’ said Stirga. ‘But it still got through. People are nervous, children aren’t sleeping. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough for many.’

  ‘Then let us pray that it doesn’t follow us into the Dyrewood,’ said Whitley solemnly. Each of the other members of the Vagabond Court nodded their agreement, muttering prayers to their gods as they did so.

  ‘One more night in the grasslands and then we’ll be in the woods,’ said Harker. ‘If the beast fancies its chances against the Dyrewood, it’s in for a shock; there are creatures in the haunted forest that could eat it for breakfast.’

  Whitley placed her cup on the ground and rose.

  ‘Where are the family of the abducted child?’

  ‘To the north of the camp,’ said Stirga.

  ‘I would have words with them,’ said Whitley, bowing to the others before setting off.

  She was quickly followed by Gretchen, who caught up with her friend and linked arms.

  ‘What do you hope we’ll find in Brackenholme?’ asked the Werefox.

  ‘At the very least my mother; at best my father, Drew and Hector as well.’

  Gretchen was silent for a moment. ‘What do you think happened to him?’

  Of the three men Whitley had mentioned, she knew full well who Gretchen meant.

  ‘You heard what that boy from Cape Gala said. He witnessed him being carried away from the High Stable in the talons of a Hawklord.’

  ‘But the Hawks are gone,’ argued Gretchen. ‘Those who lived were banished by King Leopold when Wergar was killed. Baron Skeer rules over Windfell in the Lion’s name, and he’s the last of them. There’s more chance of a dragon having spirited him away.’

  Whitley shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was Skeer who took him? Maybe it was a Crowlord and the boy was mistaken. Either way our friend has fallen off the map of Lyssia.’

  Gretchen sighed. ‘I only hope Lucas didn’t capture him. Wherever he is, I pray h
e’s safe.’

  The young Bearlady wasn’t as hopeful as her friend, but she wouldn’t voice her fears. Whitley had seen Drew when they’d stormed into the court of High Stable. He was teetering, his left hand missing, awash with blood as he staggered out of sight on to the balcony, surrounded by Vankaskan’s risen dead.

  Whitley stopped walking to give Gretchen a hug. ‘Let us pray all our loved ones are well, dear cousin.’

  For all the Fox’s charms and sharp tongue, Whitley knew a side of Gretchen that few had ever seen. While Whitley had spent much time away from her father’s court, learning the life of a scout, Gretchen had remained closeted away, enjoying a life of privilege and luxury. Beneath her tough and confident surface she was vulnerable. Destined for life as a queen from a young age, it wasn’t until Drew had exploded into her life that she’d discovered another world beyond the palace walls. She’d been betrothed to Lucas, but through her friendship with Drew, she’d found the will to fight back against the Lions. Now, after all they’d been through, Whitley knew Gretchen could never imagine herself Lucas’s queen. But if Drew – wherever in Lyssia he was – were king? Whitley preferred not to think about that.

  A woman’s quiet sobbing made the two Wereladies break from their embrace.

  ‘Is that the mother?’ whispered Whitley.

  ‘This way,’ said Gretchen, nodding as she led the Lady of Brackenholme by the hand.

  Three families had set up their small tents and bedrolls in a circle round a fire. The mother was instantly recognizable, a woman of middle years sitting cross-legged between two others who comforted her. She held a girl’s shawl, the tiny flowers of yellow and blue embroidered into the cloth illuminated by the firelight.

  Whitley wasn’t sure what to say. She’d seen her father meet bereaved families in the past – the wives or parents of slain Greencloaks who had died serving the Bear of the Dyrewood. He had always known exactly what to say. But how did it feel to lose someone yourself? Your child. Whitley thought of her brother, Broghan, and the last agonizing moments of his life. And she thought of the young lion, Prince Lucas, the golden-haired killer who had stolen Broghan from her world. She crouched down before the mother and reached across, placing her hands over the sobbing woman’s knuckles as they gripped the blanket.

  ‘I’m so very sorry for your loss.’

  The crying woman looked up, suddenly noticing that Whitley held her hand. The mother pulled one of her hands free and raised it to Whitley’s face to trace the length of her cheek. It came away wet as it wiped away the tears.

  Whitley stared into the fire. The flames roared back, bright, fierce and yellow.

  4

  The Dead and the Buried

  He still lived though his body was crushed. Only his mind still functioned; all else was broken beyond repair. How long he had lain buried, he could not tell; time held no meaning any more. He was a spirit, clinging to a broken bag of bones. There was a sudden movement as the rock and rubble shifted; a rescue? Someone took hold of his legs; he was aware of a ghostly sensation of tugging and pulling without any feeling. He was being jerked now, his body drawn feet first from his tomb. The rescuers were frantic now, their grip rough, almost savage. Fresh pain shot through his body as his torso emerged into the piercing light. His whole being was alight with agony as he felt teeth and claws shredding his flesh, dismembering his cold corpse. As his head finally emerged from the earth, he caught sight of the lion’s jaws, wide open and hungry, as they came down to close over his face.

  Bergan woke suddenly, his right arm coming up swiftly to fend off the lion’s bite. He let out a cry, his body protesting, before collapsing exhausted. The Bearlord could feel his ribs grating against one another beneath his skin, hunger gnawing at his insides. He brushed his fingers against his face; his cheeks were hollow and sunken, his beard thin and tattered. The blinding light was gone, replaced by a cold darkness that chilled him to his core. He squinted into the gloom, trying to make sense of where he was, the nightmare still all too vivid.

  The Lord of Brackenholme was in a low-ceilinged cavern, his thick cloak providing little comfort against the rough rock he lay upon. The constant dripping of water reminded him how thirsty he was. He tried to roll over, to search for the water’s source, but every movement was agony. He grimaced and collapsed, his memory slowly returning.

  The last time he had been conscious, he’d been in the Garden of the Dead, Highcliff’s cemetery for the nobility. The forces of the Wolf, routed by the invading Catlords, had fled through the tomb of the Dragonlords, one of the few secret escape routes out of the city. Bergan had remained behind, helping all others escape while he waited for King Leopold and his soldiers. The only way to stop them from following had been to bring the tunnel down around him. With a few mighty swings of his battleaxe, the Lord of Brackenholme had done just that, the tomb collapsing and burying him beneath it. He’d given his life to save the innocent.

  To be given it back was most unexpected.

  ‘You’re awake,’ said a voice in the darkness, alarming Bergan.

  ‘Who is that?’ he croaked. There was something familiar about the voice. The dim outline of a man emerged, holding something towards him.

  ‘Reuben Fry, Your Grace. Here, take a drink.’

  The Bearlord was instantly relieved. The archer from Sturmland had been one of his closest confidants throughout the siege of Highcliff keep. ‘You’re a loyal man,’ said the Duke. Bergan allowed the captain to press the tin cup to his cracked lips; the water seemed a gift from Brenn to his dry throat.

  ‘Where are we? How long have I been unconscious?’ Bergan asked.

  ‘We’re in the catacombs, my lord, the tunnels that the Thieves Guild guided us to. There aren’t many in our group – everyone was separated as they escaped the city. I only hope that someone found their way out of this foul darkness.’

  He fed the Bearlord more water as he continued.

  ‘You’ve been asleep for weeks. A month, maybe. It’s hard to tell; we’ve no way to measure time down here. The torches, lanterns and oil flasks we brought have all but run out.’

  ‘How have you survived?’

  ‘Everything’s rationed. We’re lucky the thieves had the foresight to bring oil flasks with them; a little smeared over a torn cloak goes a surprisingly long way. Still, we’re down to the last drops now.’

  Bergan shook his head, struggling to take it all in.

  ‘A month, you say? And I’ve been asleep throughout?’

  ‘You’ve dipped in and out of consciousness, Your Grace, but you’ve been fevered. We’ve had to fight you to get food down your gullet. You’ve been dragged and carried Brenn knows how far through this darkness. I’ll fetch you something to eat …’

  Bergan grabbed the man’s wrist as he rose to leave. By the dim light he could see how thin the captain was, his face almost skeletal in the gloom.

  ‘How many do we number?’

  ‘This is the rearguard, Your Grace. A handful of fighters, that’s all that’s left.’

  ‘Then I’ll do without,’ said the Bearlord. ‘I’ll not take food from their mouths.’

  ‘With respect, I’m not sure you realize how close to death you still are. You’ve not eaten properly for weeks and your body’s exhausted itself repairing injuries. You’re a shell, my lord. You must eat.’

  Bergan nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Well, you’ve my gratitude for coming back for me, Fry. There aren’t many who would’ve done that.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who came back for you, my lord. I obeyed your orders and set off into the catacombs. It was only later I discovered you’d been rescued.’

  Bergan was about to press Fry further when raised voices echoed through the tunnels.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Fry moved to investigate but Bergan kept hold of him. His grip was weakened but even in his malnourished state was still formidable.

  ‘Sounds like another argument.’

  ‘Anoth
er?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’

  ‘Take me with you. I’ve slept too long.’

  As Fry helped Bergan to his feet, the Lord of Brackenholme felt light-headed and unsteady. Shooting pains raced up his legs, because his limbs had been unused for so long. He leaned hard on the Sturmlander, allowing the captain to take all his weight.

  A faint glow illuminated parts of the cavern, but Bergan had trouble determining where it came from. Occasionally his head thumped against the rough stone of the low ceiling; he may have been half his former weight but he was still a giant of a man. As they passed a low pool, Bergan’s eyes slowly adjusted to the surroundings. Firelight began to flicker ahead, reflected off the smooth walls of the tunnels. Bergan let his hand trace the rock, surprised at how unnaturally polished it was in places.

  The firelight glowed brighter as the voices grew louder. By the time they could see the guttering torch flame an argument was in full swing. Eight men stood in a group, cursing and jostling one another. They looked weary; a madness gripping them all like a disease. None had noticed Fry and the Bearlord emerging from the darkness.

  ‘He’s a liar, I say!’ said the man holding the torch, the oldest of the group, gap-toothed and wiry. Bergan didn’t recognize him; the only familiar figures in the crowd were Sir Howard and Sir Palfrey, Duke Manfred’s knights from Stormdale, who had stayed close to Bergan as they’d escaped from Highcliff.

  ‘I’m a man of honour, Hitch,’ replied Palfrey. ‘I’m telling you the truth. I know what I saw!’

  ‘You’re a liar and a thief,’ said Hitch, spitting at the ground in front of the two noble humans. ‘I never took no food from the pack. It’s him what took it, I’d bet my life on it. Speakin’ proper don’t make you honest, fancy man …’