Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Read online

  ‘This very road?’ asked the old woman. ‘It must bring back memories for you. Sounds like a frightening experience!’

  ‘I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.’

  The moment the words were out, Whitley blushed, as her reply had come out a little more dreamily than she would have liked. Her response wasn’t lost on Gretchen, whose arched eyebrow caught the Baba’s attention.

  ‘And you, Lady Gretchen. You seem to know Drew equally well?’

  ‘If not better,’ said Gretchen, instantly deflating the scout with a playful wink. ‘I was lodging with Baron Huth, the late Lord of Redmire, when Drew arrived.’ She proceeded to tell the tale of Drew’s fight with the attacking Lionguard and their flight down the Redwine. Her near-death experience in the coils of Vala the Wereserpent, deep in the heart of the sinister Wyrmwood, had been chilling, and Gretchen left them in no doubt that the monstrous snake would have devoured her had Drew not stepped in to rescue her. She recounted their journey to All Hallows Bay and subsequent abduction by Count Vega; there was little she left out.

  Whitley knew the tale of Drew, Hector and Gretchen, and she spotted the parts of the adventure where the Fox had embellished the facts.

  ‘Goodness,’ said the Baba, her toothless smile making her ancient face scrunch up. ‘It sounds like Drew made quite an impression upon both of you. Does the Wolf know how you both feel about him?’

  Whitley and Gretchen were looking at one another again, uncertainly.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Gretchen, colour rising in her cheeks.

  ‘We’re all just friends,’ added Whitley, eager to change the subject.

  Whitley wasn’t a fool. She knew full well how Gretchen felt about the young Wolflord. For all their many differences and the fact that they came from conflicting worlds, a bond had grown between the Werefox and the boy from the Cold Coast. Gretchen had been betrothed to Prince Lucas for her entire life, and when her marriage to the Lion fell through, Drew had been there to comfort her. She’d never said as much to Whitley, but some things didn’t need voicing. She could see her feelings in the Lady of Hedgemoor’s actions, the way her mood lightened whenever Drew’s name was mentioned, and he appeared to thrive in her presence too. There was something powerful between the Fox and the Wolf.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Baba Korga. ‘If I’ve spoken out of turn it wasn’t my intention.’ She patted her hands over her leathery face. ‘From what I’ve heard – not just from yourselves – Drew sounds like a remarkable character. But a dangerous thing is love; I’ve seen many a friendship sundered by a broken heart over my long years.’

  Whitley smiled awkwardly, and Gretchen even managed a laugh, but each was suddenly numbed into silence. Whitley glanced at the sides of the caravan, then looked down the road as if suddenly seeing an excuse to be away.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly. ‘I’m needed at the front.’

  With that she was off, letting Chancer stretch his legs as she sped past the Romari caravans to the head of the line, resuming her position as scout. The horse slowed to a trot, shaking his mane, wishing to be running at full stride again. Whitley’s memory took her elsewhere once more. It was the dead of night and she was on a bluff, overlooking the Longridings, Drew Ferran at her side. She missed him terribly, and, as with her father, feared that she’d seen the last of him.

  She had to be strong: her brothers in the Woodland Watch needed her, as did her people. With her father and brother having taken the long sleep, she was needed in Brackenholme. Dwelling on the past did no good, nor dreaming about what might have been or recalling those last, harsh words with the young Wolflord. Whitley had to look to the future, and whatever dangers awaited her. Wiping a tear from her eye, she tried to concentrate on the Dymling Road.

  1

  The War Machine

  The first of Riven’s siege towers had rumbled into the meadows around Stormdale late that evening, to the delight of the Catlords’ army. A team of sixteen heavy horses had hauled the tower into the valley, four enormous wheels turning over, cutting up ice and snow as they drew inexorably closer to the city. More would surely follow in the coming days, but the sight of the first tower brought wild cheers from the men of Vermire and Riven. This was the first of many siege engines made to breach the Staglords’ walls.

  While the enemy encampment had settled for the evening, welcoming their allies around their fires, the people of Stormdale had watched miserably, seeing the stranglehold round their city tightening. It was late, and the night watch kept their focus fixed on their foes. There would be no attack this evening at such an hour, at least not from the Rats or Crows. Lord Reinhardt stood on the outer wall alongside Magister Siegfried, the old man leaning hard on his staff.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right thing to do?’ asked the old healer. ‘It’s very risky.’

  ‘It’s too late for second thoughts, friend,’ replied the Staglord. ‘He’s already beyond the wall.’

  From their vantage point on the ramparts, Reinhardt and Siegfried caught the briefest glimpse of a dark shape dashing for the small copse of trees that stood nearest to the city walls. Stormdale was unlit, shrouded in darkness, as were her walls around their base. The only illumination came from the enemy campfires some distance away, the moon and stars obscured by a thick bank of clouds.

  Drew crouched low in the sparse undergrowth that surrounded the trees. A small pack was slung over his shoulder, its contents wrapped in cloth to stop them from jostling together and making any noise. Moonbrand, the Sword of the Wolflords, remained sheathed on his hip, the weapon’s apparent weightlessness providing little encumbrance. A stream bed snaked below him, winding its way past the trees before disappearing into the enemy camp, tantalizingly close to his target.

  The Wolflord shook his head, wishing Red Rufus was still with them. It had come as a huge surprise to Drew to discover that Red Rufus had flown away from Stormdale without a word of goodbye. He’d hoped the old bird would stay by his side; allies for Drew’s cause were becoming few and far between in Lyssia, especially ones with military experience like Red Rufus. The Hawk had served as an aerial scout for Wergar decades ago, warning him when danger approached. To lose him on the eve of battle was a bitter blow to the Wolf and the Stags. Drew in particular had expected more from Red Rufus; the Hawk was the last person he’d expected to be a deserter.

  The odds are grave though, thought Drew, taking a good look at the encampment from the ground for the first time. With thousands already gathered and more to come, what chance did the men and women of Stormdale have against such a force? If the Hawklord had remained, Drew’s present task wouldn’t be proving half as difficult. Red Rufus could have carried him into the heart of the enemy, flying him back out in no time at all. Instead Drew had resorted to going in on foot; this would be horrifically dangerous should his mission go awry.

  Dropping silently into the ditch, Drew set off alongside the stream bed, staying low. Soon he was running through the outskirts of the camp, careful to keep his bare, clawed feet away from the water’s edge; a telltale splash would be sure to end his mission before it had begun. He couldn’t do this without engaging with some of his therianthropic ability. Taking on a few of the Wolf’s aspects, he became a stealthy hunter, his senses heightened to aid his task. A low bridge spanned the stream ahead where it widened, joining one fallow meadow to the next, linking up the enemy’s lines. He slowed as he approached and spotted a lone soldier standing in its centre.

  The man’s back was turned, the warrior taking a moment to relieve himself in the stream. Drew hugged the dark wall of the ditch, shrouded by rocks and roots that hung from the frozen bank. The man finished his business, then turned to look back up the stream in Drew’s direction. The Wolflord held his breath, careful not to exhale a telltale ball of mist. Then the soldier went on his way, heavy boots tramping across the bridge as he returned to camp.

  Drew ran on, beneath the bridge, drawin
g closer to his target. The siege tower stood unguarded beside a huge tent, the machine safe behind enemy lines and out of range of Staglord attack. At least, so the Rats and Crows thought.

  Climbing deftly up the bank, Drew crawled quickly across to the tent, pausing for a moment to lift the base of the canvas wall. A single guard sat in the centre on a stool, a lantern at his feet lighting the contents of the tent arranged regimentally around him. Provisions stood stacked against one another – dozens of barrels crammed full of arrows, row upon row of stacked spears and pikes.

  This tent alone would supply Stormdale through any siege, thought Drew. He hoped it was their main store of weapons and not one of many. Ducking back from the foot of the tent, Drew clung to the shadows and scrambled towards the wooden tower.

  It was just as he and Reinhardt had feared. The construct was perhaps four storeys high, easily big enough to reach the top of Stormdale’s outer walls. Two sets of wide wooden steps ran around one another within its frame, allowing an attacking force to run both up and down the tower at the same time. Animal hide and wooden planking provided a shield along the entire front of the structure, protecting enemy soldiers from the bows of Stormdale’s defenders. If the tower reached the walls with an army at its back, the results would be devastating. Drew had to work fast.

  Climbing into the tower, he traversed the first set of steps to the first floor. Once there he unslung his pack, taking out five flasks of oil and unwrapping them. Removing the corks, he set about splashing the amber liquid across the platform’s deck. The fourth flask he threw across the hide wall, the oil soaking into the skin panelling and pouring down its length towards the base.

  Drew held the last oil flask in his hand, formulating a fresh idea in that instant. He made his way down the slatted steps, the smell of oil now strong in the air. Hopping down from the structure, he rushed over and poured the oil across the munitions tent’s rear wall, making as little noise as possible as he drenched the canvas. As the last drops fell, Drew quietly placed the flask on the ground and pulled out his three fire-sticks. Lighting anything with a flint and steel was hopeless for Drew with just one hand, but the ingenious Magister Siegfried had provided him with small, sulphurous-smelling sticks of kindling. Biting a stick between his jaws, he struck a shard of flint he’d been given down its length, and a spark briefly appeared, then spluttered out. He was about to strike a second time when he heard voices approaching.

  ‘It’s the Vermirians, ain’t it?’ said the first. ‘They’ve been takin’ the lion’s share from the field tent.’

  ‘They think because they work for the Lion that means they get first pick of everything. Greedy rats!’

  Drew looked around – there was nowhere to hide, the booted footsteps were approaching fast and flickering torchlight glowed ever brighter around the side of the tent.

  ‘Have you seen their gear?’ asked the first. ‘Half of them have got silver-blessed weapons, and the rest are fully armoured!’

  ‘I’m just glad they’re on our side,’ added his comrade.

  ‘They may bring the silver, but we bring the siege engines …’ said the other, as the two stepped round the back of the tent together.

  The first soldier never completed his boast, as Drew’s open hand caught him on the side of the head, sending him flying head-to-head into his companion with a sickening crunch. Only the first soldier fell, the second staggering blindly out of the way with his torch, wailing as he went.

  ‘Brenn!’ cursed Drew, leaping forward to silence the man.

  Before the young Wolf could reach him, the soldier had crashed into the side of the siege tower. The moment the torch’s guttering flame licked the edge of the hide wall the yellow fire raced up its length, half-completing Drew’s mission. The soldier’s arm was now slick with the oil, and his wail became a shriek of terror as he dropped the torch to flap at his blazing arm.

  Snatching up the flaming brand from the floor, Drew launched it into the side of the munitions tent before racing back towards the stream bed. He glanced back at the tent and tower which were both alight, black smoke billowing into the frigid sky.

  Drew hit the icy water in the bottom of the ditch with a splash. He pounded through the stream, back towards Stormdale. As he approached the low bridge, four black-cloaked archers appeared along its length, stopping their run as they saw his approach. They reached for their arrows, loading bows as he neared. Drew sped up, embracing the change and unsheathing Moonbrand as he took to the air. The middle two bowmen were levelling their weapons just as the Werewolf leapt at them.

  The first archer was run through cleanly by the sword, the glowing blade emerging from his back, shining momentarily before it was whipped free again. Drew’s clawed foot sent the next man crashing into a third, the two tumbling from the bridge. Drew barged the dying bowman into the last of the black-cloaked men, but the archer sidestepped his companion, firing his bow wildly at close range to the Werewolf. The arrow cut into Drew’s left shoulder, and the pain was instantaneous. A roar from the Wolf was enough to break the man’s courage, and the archer jumped from the bridge to join his comrades in the ditch. Drew leapt back into the stream bed, running swiftly away from the melee as the call to arms went up in the camp. Soon he was clearing the copse of trees and dashing the final distance to the walls of Stormdale, where the gates were already opening to allow him in.

  Drew staggered to a halt in the avenue beyond the gates, a crowd of townsfolk and soldiers giving him room while his body reverted to its human state. Reinhardt and his fellow Staglords raced down the gatehouse steps, and the limping nobleman was the first to approach the shifting Werewolf. Drew snarled, a trace of the beast remaining, as he reached for the arrow that was still buried in his shoulder.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Magister Siegfried, the last to approach. ‘If that was a Vermirian arrow, the chances are it’s silver. Come with me; I’ll see to the wound.’

  As Drew stepped towards the old healer, a roaring, crashing sound beyond the walls was followed by a cheer from the Greycloaks who manned the parapets.

  ‘It’s the tower, my lord! It’s fallen! Their camp is ablaze!’

  As Drew was led away, the men and women of Stormdale who were gathered in the street and along the walls began chanting triumphantly, using the dialect of the Barebones.

  ‘Any sign of Red Rufus?’ asked Drew.

  ‘No,’ replied the magister sadly.

  ‘Curse the coward,’ said Drew bitterly.

  The chants of the crowd grew louder and louder as they spread throughout the streets and ramparts of Stormdale. Drew could sense the camaraderie and conviction behind them.

  ‘You’re a hero, Drew Ferran,’ said the old healer warmly. ‘That single act has given them hope.’

  ‘The battle’s far from over, Siegfried.’

  ‘Allow them this moment. Let them savour victory; perhaps they’ll get a taste for it.’

  Drew looked round as the chant continued to build. ‘What are they saying?’ he asked as they continued on their way.

  Siegfried walked steadfastly on, just a flicker of pride crossing the magister’s weary face. ‘The Wolf,’ he said. ‘The Wolf is our saviour.’

  2

  Into the Light

  The cold water came up to their waists, chilling their aching bones to the marrow. Duke Bergan staggered on blindly, pushing the discomfort from his mind, his frail hand keeping a tight hold of Captain Fry’s shoulder in front of him. His other arm was extended behind him, holding Pick by the collar of her soaking shirt. The only sources of light were the strange luminescent clumps of lichen they’d scraped from the walls, smeared across the blades of the daggers the survivors held up before them. What caused the mosses to glow, nobody knew, but they were grateful beyond words for the faint illumination. Occasionally the briefest detail of rock could be seen as the tunnel ceiling sloped down ahead of them, threatening to submerge beneath the water before rising up beyond.

  The knight of Storm
dale, Sir Palfrey, had died during the night and Bergan had taken the man’s death hard. The knights had joined him in Highcliff’s Garden of the Dead to fight by his side. For one to die in such dreadful circumstances, deep beneath the earth far from home, weighed heavily on his mind. He shook his head, trying to stop his thoughts from returning to the cold body they’d left behind in the cavern. Instead, he looked ahead, squinting through the gloom.

  Bo Carver and Sir Howard suddenly appeared in front of them, the glowing lichen illuminating them faintly in the dark. The tunnel ended behind them and the rock wall disappeared into the cold water all around them. Carver’s barely visible face was dripping with water and set in a frown.

  ‘We can go no further without going under,’ said the Lord of Thieves.

  ‘For what good?’ asked Howard, exhausted by their ordeal and the loss of his friend. ‘We might drown before we reach air again! Do you even know if there’s a tunnel there, Carver? We’re lost, admit it!’

  ‘The thieves came this way,’ said Bergan with a snort. ‘I may be weak and weary, but my nose doesn’t fail me. The air’s thick with their scent.’

  Carver turned to Howard. ‘Care to argue with a Bearlord, good knight?’

  ‘How can you be sure they haven’t drowned up there?’ asked Fry, nodding to where the roof sloped beneath the water.

  ‘We can’t,’ smiled Carver.

  Bergan passed Pick across to Fry, stepping past the Sturmlander and pushing between Carver and Howard. He placed his hands on the walls and took a few deep breaths.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Carver.

  ‘Going for a swim.’

  ‘This is no time for jest, Your Grace.’

  ‘And I’m in no jesting mood. If you think I’m letting one of you risk your life for me, you’re wrong. Besides which, who has the bigger lungs: a human or bear?’

  ‘There’s one problem,’ said Fry, as Pick rested her head against his shoulder. ‘If we all go through, the last torch brand will be soaked and useless.’