Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 6

  ‘It’s true, I was a sergeant with the Lionguard, but that life is behind me. I follow a different path now.’

  ‘Admirable,’ said the Baba who had initially spoken. ‘Then you prove no threat to our people. I suppose we should just let you go?’

  Trent glanced round the fire. In addition to the six wise women, men-at-arms and elders had gathered, standing at a respectful distance while the Babas passed judgement on the outrider.

  ‘He’s scouting for them,’ said another Baba. ‘Are your masters so fearful of we few – the Romari nation – that you’ve singled us out as a threat? Well, let them come, I say. They shall feel the full wrath of the People of the Wolf.’

  The Zadkas and young warriors clapped their hands behind the Babas, banging blades against shields and scabbards, voicing their support for the old woman’s words.

  ‘The “People of the Wolf”? What does that mean?’

  The first Baba rose from where she sat, stepping closer to Trent. The further she moved from the fire’s shadows, the clearer her features were. Her face was weathered, reminding Trent of spoiled timber, rutted and worn with age. Her chin jutted out from below her shrivelled gums, thin grey hair straggling down her face and curling like oily worms around her jaw. She blinked, and white misty orbs stared through the young man from the Cold Coast, as her blind eyes rolled in their sockets.

  ‘My name is Baba Soba, and I speak for all my people. We Romari live on the road, child. The trees are our walls, the sky is our roof and the moon lights the way for our people. As the moon watches over us, so we watch over her children. We are the People of the Wolf, our lives inextricably tied to the great beast. Whoever attacks the Wolf attacks the Romari: when your masters attacked Drew Ferran, they waged war upon my kind.’

  Trent felt light-headed as she spoke, her words commanding and mesmerizing him. He’d lost sight of all else around him as she spoke, and his eyes were focused on her puckered lips. His heart felt tight in his chest, and with a gasp he suddenly realized that he’d stopped breathing. He gulped at the air, the mention of his brother’s name snatching him out of Baba Soba’s bewitching thrall.

  The Baba smiled as Trent choked and coughed, bent double and panting as the air rushed back into his lungs. He looked up, eyes wide with fright at the power in her voice.

  ‘Oh, you’re a strong one,’ she said, surprised at Trent’s recovery. ‘There are few who have the will to break an invocation.’

  ‘An invocation? What did you just do?’ gasped Trent, as the guards yanked him upright. ‘You’re a witch?’

  The menfolk shouted now, objecting to Trent’s accusation. Baba Soba raised a bony hand to silence them.

  ‘You can call me that, Westlander. I’ve been called worse. I’m simply a Romari who wants answers to questions. Tell me, what was it I said that revived you just then?’

  Trent swallowed hard, his throat dry. Do I tell them? He felt he’d betrayed his brother enough in the many miserable months that had passed since he last saw him. Has it really been a year since we were separated? In that time Drew had been proclaimed rightful heir to the throne of Westland, sparking a war in which many Werelords had lost their lives, not least King Leopold, the Werelion. Could he believe that the Romari were loyal to his brother? Can I believe these people worship the Wolf?

  ‘Speak up, child,’ said the Baba. ‘I may be blind, but I hear very well. Must I summon your answer once more?’

  ‘You mentioned Drew,’ said Trent quickly, desperate not to fall under her spell again.

  ‘So,’ said the old woman, stroking a skeletal finger down her shrivelled face. She stepped closer, a foot from Trent, smacking her lips as she asked her question. ‘Who is Drew Ferran to you, that the utterance of his name may break my charm?’

  ‘He’s my brother,’ said Trent. He didn’t have to think about it, the words escaping involuntarily. The onlookers gasped, even Baba Soba stepping back with surprise.

  ‘Brother, you say?’ she cackled. ‘Child, I know a therianthrope when I meet one …’ She leaned in and sniffed at him, her big nostrils flaring as her face brushed his. Trent shivered, feeling cold to the core. ‘And you are no Werelord.’

  ‘My parents raised Drew. We grew up as twins. We may not be brothers by blood but we’re as close as any could be.’

  ‘So close that you took the Red?’ said the Baba.

  Trent’s stomach knotted as the old woman put the puzzle together. She stepped behind him, taking his bound hands in hers. He felt her chill fingers massage his palms, as if reading whatever secrets lay hidden beneath his skin. Trent grimaced as he felt something sharp jab into the flesh of his right hand when the Baba clenched her hand over his. The warm blood flowed between their twined fingers for a moment, spreading into the old woman’s palm, before she cast his hand away once more to shuffle over to her sisters.

  ‘He lies!’ said a Zadka, growing tired of the interrogation.

  ‘Hang him!’ added another, as the Romari men pushed their way forward, manhandling him away from the Babas.

  ‘I’m telling the truth!’ cried Trent, but Baba Soba remained silent as the Zadkas ordered him away.

  The Romari were already stringing a rope in a nearby tree as the guards began to lead the young Redcloak away. He glanced over his shoulder as he was jostled through the travellers, hoping to catch sight of the soothsayer. He struggled helplessly against the guards’ grip, as the crowd parted to let them through to the Hanging Tree.

  ‘I’m not the enemy!’ he shouted.

  Suddenly the noose was round his neck, the knot pulled tight. A barrel was rolled beneath the tree and the guards lifted Trent to stand on the lid while they pulled the rope taut behind him. From over the heads of the gathered Romari men, he could see that Baba Soba had been joined by her five ancient sisters, the six in a huddle by the fire. The soothsayer held out her palm while her companions inspected it, casting eyes and fingers over the Redcloak’s blood.

  ‘Please!’ Trent said tearfully, spluttering as he felt the barrel begin to move. One of the warriors gave the wooden cask a hard kick, and the rope yanked stiff in an instant as Trent found himself suspended in the air.

  Trent lashed out, the noose tightening with each desperate kick. The Romari stood back, taking little pleasure in the execution of their enemy. They couldn’t allow their whereabouts to reach their foes, and they weren’t a force who took prisoners. Spittle flew from Trent’s lips as he felt the darkness beginning to close in, his eyes bulging as he stared across at the Babas, just at the moment when Soba threw her hands out towards the crowd.

  ‘Stop!’ bellowed the Baba, her voice as loud as thunder.

  The branch the rope was fastened to shattered suddenly, wood splintering as it came away from the tree. Trent collapsed, his legs buckling with the impact as he hit the cold, hard ground. He felt rough hands around his throat, as the Romari tugged the rope loose and rolled him over. Trent lay there wheezing, as all six Babas made their way across to him, the vengeful men parting to allow them through.

  ‘The young man tells the truth,’ said one of the sisters.

  ‘He is the brother of Drew Ferran,’ added the next.

  ‘And he no longer fights for the Lion,’ said Baba Soba.

  Trent struggled to speak, his throat raw from constriction. ‘I told you,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not your enemy.’

  ‘Where were you heading, child?’ asked Soba, her blind eyes staring down to where he lay.

  ‘To Brackenholme. My brother’s friends – Lady Gretchen and Lady Whitley – they travel there and are in danger.’

  ‘Word reached us that the Wereladies you speak of travel with Romari,’ said a short Zadka with a bushy beard.

  ‘What kind of danger?’ said another Baba.

  ‘I don’t know. A friend of Drew’s, Baron Ewan, said I had to go to their aid; that they needed protecting. It’s the least I could do for my brother.’ Trent lowered his eyes. ‘I am indebted to him.’

  S
oba turned to her sisters, the Babas muttering among one another while the men watched over Trent. A short Zadka with a bushy beard reached down and helped the young outrider to his feet. His grip was firm but forgiving.

  ‘We can take no chances,’ he explained. ‘The Lionguard have never shown the Romari mercy, and with war spreading across Lyssia we’re more cautious than ever.’

  Trent nodded by way of an answer, turning back to the old women.

  ‘We travel to Brackenholme,’ said Baba Soba, turning back to the Romari after discussing the news with her sisters. ‘Duke Bergan always showed our people great kindness. Any friend of the Wolf is a friend of ours. We would see these therian ladies protected.’

  ‘May I go on my way?’ asked Trent hopefully.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Master Ferran. Although you speak the truth when you tell us of your loyalty to your brother, the facts are cloudy. There’s more that you haven’t yet told us. Betrayal taints your blood.’

  Trent grimaced. If I told them half the things I’ve done in the name of the Lion they’d find another branch on that tree for me.

  ‘But I need to find Gretchen and Whitley. They’re in danger!’

  ‘Do they travel alone on the Dymling Road?’ Soba sounded greatly concerned.

  ‘No,’ said Trent. ‘They travel with another of your wise women: Baba Korga.’

  The menfolk began to protest, raising their voices in alarm as the Babas turned to one another in disbelief.

  ‘What is wrong?’ said Trent.

  ‘I don’t know who the Wolf’s friends travel with,’ said Baba Soba, her voice heavy with fear. ‘But it isn’t Baba Korga.’

  ‘I know what I was told. Korga accompanies them to the Woodland Realm, offering them her protection.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ said the soothsayer, her eyes reflecting the flames from the fire-pit. ‘Baba Korga was killed in a Wyldermen attack months ago. Whoever “protects” the Wereladies, it is not her.’ Her face was grave as Trent realized what she was saying. ‘Master Ferran, they travel with an imposter.’

  8

  A Dangerous Thing

  For the briefest moment, Whitley let her memory run away with itself. She was the young scout learning under the watchful gaze of Master Hogan once again, departing from Brackenholme with a head full of stories and a heart full of hope. Her father had reluctantly allowed her to serve her apprenticeship in the Woodland Watch, his words of encouragement about court life having constantly fallen on deaf ears.

  She and Hogan had slipped out of the woodland city before dawn. The old scout had been given the task of hunting a strange beast that had been spotted along the south-western edges of the forest. The mission had been potentially dangerous, as any foray into the Dyrewood was, but Hogan was too experienced to allow anything dreadful to befall the girl. The strange beast had turned out to be Drew Ferran, who had only recently discovered his lycanthropic powers and didn’t yet know how to control them, and Whitley’s life had never been the same since.

  Now Whitley twisted in her saddle, looking back down the Dymling Road to where the small Romari caravan of wagons followed. She winced as she moved, feeling the flesh pull around the arrow wounds in her back. Thanks to her therian healing she was recovering swiftly, but the discomfort was a constant reminder of the grave danger the group were in. She’d taken the lead on Chancer, scouting ahead and keeping her eyes open for any peril that might await them. Though the old forest avenue was familiar to the Romari, none knew it quite as well as the folk of Brackenholme, especially the scouts of the Woodland Watch.

  She turned back to the road ahead. Baba Korga’s man, Rolff, was out of sight, as the wise woman had insisted that he should travel well ahead of the caravan on foot, without the noise of wagons or horses cloaking that of any would-be attackers. The mute Romari had been gone the whole day, under strict instructions to stay alert for any sign of Wyldermen. She hoped he would return safely when they made camp at nightfall.

  Pulling Chancer off the road, Whitley allowed the caravan to catch up. Captain Harker rode alongside the lead wagon, and the experienced campaigner nodded sombrely to her as they approached. It gave Whitley great comfort that the man on whom her father had leaned so heavily in all matters military was by her side. It was almost as if the Old Bear himself was present, and it broke Whitley’s heart to think that she’d never see him again. News had reached them of Bergan’s death in Highcliff, and the foolish dreamer inside the girl prayed he yet lived. As daughter mourned father, so the captain mourned his liege. Why Harker had never risen up the ranks, Brenn only knew. His Greencloak companions, Tristam and Quist, rode at the back of the line.

  Whitley waited for the middle wagons to pass by before falling in alongside the one that carried Gretchen and Baba Korga. With Rolff away scouting, Stirga and Yuzhnik had taken the reins, the sword-swallower and the fire-eater sharing the driver’s bench up front.

  ‘There’s room for a small one up here,’ said Stirga, smiling.

  ‘That’s if you don’t mind sitting between two old clowns,’ added Yuzhnik.

  ‘I’m fine,’ smiled Whitley, patting Chancer’s neck. ‘It feels good to be riding home, especially on this fine fellow.’

  The horse snorted, as if approving the compliment.

  ‘How long until we make the city, my lady?’ asked Stirga.

  ‘A couple of days at most; I’d be there sooner if I rode on to warn them of our arrival.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend anyone going on alone in these woods. I still say it’s madness that the silent giant went on ahead.’

  ‘It’s what his mistress told him to do,’ said Yuzhnik, his voice quiet.

  There had been disagreements within the Vagabond Court regarding Rolff scouting far ahead of the group, but the old Baba wouldn’t be swayed; her mind was set on her man keeping a watchful eye over the Dyrewood.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. It’d be a fool, man or monster, who tangled with Rolff,’ said Whitley.

  She waved to the two Romari and let Chancer slow once again, falling in behind the wagon which was open at the rear, its canvas doors pinned back against the sides. Baba Korga and Gretchen sat within. The young Werefox’s sleeves were rolled up, and she was busy skinning a rabbit. Badly.

  ‘Good grief,’ laughed Whitley. ‘Are you doing some work at last?’

  ‘Hold your tongue, Bearlady,’ said Gretchen in mock annoyance. ‘I decided it was about time I got my hands dirty.’

  Baba Korga watched as Gretchen tugged at the rabbit’s skin, sawing at it with a tiny knife. The wise woman was smiling, clearly enjoying the noblewoman’s struggle.

  ‘Nobody should be so proud that they aren’t afraid to get their hands bloody, my ladies. Each of us must eat to live.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Gretchen, nodding enthusiastically as she lopped off another piece of fur-covered flesh. ‘And if you’re just going to hang around there and poke fun at me I’d suggest you trot off and make yourself useful. This is serious business, preparing dinner.’

  ‘Will there be enough to go round once you’ve hacked it to ribbons?’ said Whitley, slapping her thigh.

  Finally, Gretchen gave up her struggle to prepare the rabbit, joining Whitley in a bout of laughter. She raised her red-stained hands.

  ‘I’m not really helping, am I? I just thought it would be good to show our friends that we’re all in this together.’

  Despite the bitter cold, Whitley felt a warmth in her heart that had been missing for too long. Surrounded by violence for months, she’d forgotten what it felt like simply to be a girl again, enjoying a friend’s company. Gretchen was proving a kindred spirit, a shoulder to lean on when times were so often dark.

  Korga coughed suddenly, massaging her throat beneath her scarf with a liver-spotted hand. The old woman was clearly unwell, and the last place she should have been was on the road. She was covered in coats and blankets, layer upon layer protecting her from the cold. She’d spent much of their time while t
ravelling resting within the dark confines of her caravan: this was a rare occasion when the girls could spend time with her.

  ‘Are you all right, Baba?’ asked Whitley, as Gretchen washed her hands in a pail of water before drying them on her dress. Korga cleared her throat, waving Whitley’s concerns away with a shrivelled hand.

  ‘I’m fine. Something I’ve eaten is disagreeing with me, that’s all.’ She pulled one of the blankets closer. ‘You two have known one another for a long time?’

  Gretchen and Whitley looked at one another, nodding.

  ‘Since infancy,’ said the scout. ‘Gretchen would come and stay in my father’s court occasionally while Earl Gaston resided in Highcliff. He was one of the Lion’s advisers.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Gretchen, still ashamed of what her father had endured under Leopold’s reign. ‘I spent most of my childhood being shipped around Lyssia. If it wasn’t Brackenholme it was Stormdale or Redmire.’

  ‘Redmire?’ said Korga. ‘The home of the Boarlords? So that’s how you know your friend Hector you’ve spoken of?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Gretchen. ‘We all spent a great deal of time in one another’s company while growing up. We’re cousins in every sense of the word.’

  ‘So how is it that you know the Wolf?’

  Whitley cut in, pleased to be able to tell her part in the story. She quickly recounted the circumstances of how she and Master Hogan had found a feral Drew in the Dyrewood, and their encounter with the Wyldermen as they made their way to Brackenholme along the Dymling Road.