Nest of Serpents (Book 4) Page 8

  Bergan stopped what he was doing and looked at the others.

  ‘We cannot stay down here forever. Better to die trying to escape than curl up and lose the will to live.’

  They nodded, Pick’s eyes wide with fear.

  With great effort, Bergan allowed the Bear to emerge, his frame shifting as he threatened to fill the tunnel, the transformation exhausting the scraps of energy his body still had in reserve. The men stood back, keeping their distance as the Lord of Brackenholme’s ursine side appeared. His bones cracked, joints broadening to take his great mass, as his huge muzzle broke through his skull.

  ‘Wait here,’ growled the Werebear, before taking a gulp of air and diving under.

  The submerged tunnel remained wide, with space for the therianthrope’s body as he kicked down, following the descending ceiling. His enormous paws acted as paddles, propelling him swiftly through the cold water, beyond a point where the ceiling suddenly disappeared. With a gasp he emerged into air, and not the stale, dead kind of the labyrinth, but with a hint of something else: fresh air.

  He shook his coat for a moment, standing in the shallows of the passage, before filling his lungs and diving back into the water-filled tunnel.

  When he emerged on the other side, his companions all cheered with relief at his return.

  The Bearlord clapped his paws together with childlike excitement. ‘You must go through!’ he said, the joy evident in his voice. ‘Fresh air lies beyond! There’s an exit from this miserable crypt!’

  The men looked at one another for the briefest moment, before deciding who should go first. Howard shook off the remains of his armour, diving under and speeding on his way. Carver followed, with Fry in hot pursuit. Last to go through was Bergan, this time with Pick’s shirt in his jaws, the big Bear spiriting them both swiftly through the freezing water and out the other side. Bergan spluttered, clearing his throat, as Pick trembled on the floor.

  ‘Are you all right, child?’ asked the Bearlord, his gruff voice softening. The girl nodded, although her body shook with shock.

  Bergan allowed the Bear to recede, reaching back to loosen his cloak from his shrinking body. Soaking as it was, it was still another layer for Pick to wear. He lifted her from the ground, a bit of his old self returning as he found strength he’d thought lost. Carrying her in his arms, he looked down the tunnel, unable to see the others.

  ‘Carver! Fry! Howard!’ he called, taking the first steps up the incline. He was about to shout for them again when he heard the first scream.

  Without hesitation Bergan began to run with Pick in his weary embrace. As he followed the tunnel upwards, he noticed light reflecting off the smooth walls. The tunnel switched one way and then the other, climbing ever higher until suddenly dropping away at a frightening angle. Bergan’s legs went from under him, the axe on his back striking the tunnel floor as he began a swift descent, Pick clutching his chest for dear life. The Bearlord picked up speed as he bounced down the tunnel, sliding out on to the floor in a crunching tangle of limbs.

  The tunnel mouth opened into a large cavern. At the far side of the chamber, further hints of daylight bounced off the polished surfaces of another glassy-walled tunnel. Between the Bearlord and escape was a dark and dank scene of horror.

  His three companions stood before him, their weapons drawn as they surveyed the grisly drama in the half-light. Enormous worms writhed across the floor of the cavern, pale, blind bulbous heads bobbing as they lurched towards the living. The creatures resembled giant earthworms, their translucent skin revealing innards that beat with a pale, white blood. They were as long as thirty feet, and as tall as a hunting dog, their heads topped with circular rows of serrated teeth.

  As Bergan surveyed the scene, it became evident that the treacherous thieves who had abandoned them had indeed come that way. Here and there the odd part-digested body part of Hitch and his gang could be seen, suspended inside the worms’ transparent intestines.

  The Bearlord grimaced as he spied the half-eaten remains that littered the floor of the chamber. Six of the creatures squirmed across the cavern, winding their vile bodies between the numerous large stalagmites that rose from the ground, immediately drawn to the intruders’ faint body heat.

  ‘Move!’ shouted Bergan, prompting his companions to action.

  Carver was off instantly, cutting a path between the creatures, with Howard and Fry close behind. Bergan followed, clutching Pick as if his life depended upon it. Carver’s knives flashed as one of the creatures lurched at him, and he plunged both daggers into the beast’s rolls of skin. The undulating flesh recoiled, sending Carver’s arms and daggers flying back. Though the creature’s milky blood oozed from the wounds, it showed no sign of stopping, snatching at the Lord of Thieves with its serrated maw.

  Carver kicked at the head, the monster rolling away, allowing Howard and Fry to dash by. As Bergan tried to follow he found his path suddenly cut off, and another worm encircled them, so he and Carver were separated from their allies. More of the beasts were beginning to squirm out of the cavern walls around them. Bergan hefted his great axe from his back, swinging Pick round in its place, raising the half-moon blade as he tried to find a way through.

  Carver lashed out repeatedly, his daggers making no impact upon the ribbed flesh of the creature as it looped itself around his legs and torso. It began to tighten its coils, the thief’s arms trapped at his side as its terrible mouth opened wide, coming down over him. Bergan lashed out, the axe blade chopping clean through the creature’s head, white blood fountaining from the decapitated body. The Bearlord tore the coils loose from the Thief-lord, as he and Carver looked for a way past the foul worms.

  ‘The Bear, Your Grace; can you call upon it?’ asked Carver.

  ‘That last change took everything out of me,’ cried the Werelord, the axe now heavy in his grip. ‘I haven’t the energy!’

  As the worm in front of them reared up, Carver launched both his daggers into its open mouth, and the creature bucked back and writhed spasmodically. A gap had opened. Snatching the axe from the therian, the Lord of the Thieves pushed Bergan and Pick on, lashing out wildly when more of the creatures closed in at their heels.

  Bergan ran hard, his lungs heaving with the exertion, Pick’s hands throttling him as she clung on in terror. He heard his axe striking the ground behind him, the blade sending showers of sparks off the cavern floor with each blow. He prayed to Brenn that Carver was finding his mark with some of his swings.

  Bergan collapsed alongside Howard and Fry at the base of the exit tunnel, where more light reflected down from above. Stalagmites were visible for maybe twenty or thirty feet up the slope, rising from the ground where the passage levelled out, but getting there would be impossible. With a heavy heart he noticed that the route had the same polished rock as those they’d come across earlier, but he was no longer sure this was caused by the passage of water.

  ‘We’ll never get out!’ said Howard, his longsword slick with white blood. More of the creatures emerged from the cavern walls, finding their way to the cave floor.

  Pick suddenly leapt off Bergan’s back and jumped into the darkness in the direction of the creatures.

  ‘No!’ shouted the Bearlord, about to follow before he saw her rifling through the remains of one of the thieves. She scampered back, just as a worm lunged for her, Fry stepping forward and slashing at the beast. In her hands she held the long length of rope that the thieves had taken with them. Throwing it over her shoulder, she jumped up towards the exit tunnel.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Fry, pulling Pick back for a moment.

  Bergan tugged the Sturmlander’s hand free. ‘Let her go.’

  Reluctantly the captain released his grip, and within moments the girl-thief was scampering up the slippery incline, finding handholds where nobody else would. Carver clattered into their backs, short of breath, Bergan’s axe awash with gore.

  ‘I could get used to an axe,’ laughed the Thief-lord, though his fa
ce was white with fear.

  Pick was halfway up the tunnel now, slipping occasionally as she progressed, but nearing the slope’s summit. She moved with cat-like grace, no doubt learned from scaling buildings within Highcliff over her handful of years. Suddenly she reached the top, and wound the rope round the largest stalagmite she could find before dropping the end back down the tunnel.

  Bergan gave Fry a shove, sending the captain forward to snatch hold of the rope. Hand over hand he drew himself up the incline, soon joining Pick at the top. Next went Howard, handing his sword over to Bergan to help keep the creatures at bay.

  ‘Thank you, Carver,’ said Bergan.

  ‘For what?’ snarled Carver, hacking at the monsters.

  ‘Coming back for me in the Garden of the Dead.’

  ‘You realize you’re going next, don’t you?’ gasped Carver, lunging forward with Bergan’s axe.

  ‘You know me: I like to be the last one out,’ grimaced the Bearlord, skewering a worm on the knight’s sword. He gave the thief an elbow in his side. ‘On your way!’

  Reluctantly, Carver handed the axe back to Bergan as they swapped weapons, before clambering up the tunnel’s length. Bergan roared at the creatures; not the bellow of a Werebear, but the scream of a man with nothing left to lose. One of the worms lurched at him, and the Werelord launched a fist into the side of its bulbous head, sending it snapping into its brethren.

  ‘Climb!’ shouted his companions, drawing the Bearlord from his battle.

  The rope was waiting for him. Throwing the axe into the loop of leather on his back, he grabbed hold with tired hands and tried to climb. The rope slipped through his fingers, which were slippery with white blood, and his knees gave way as he almost tumbled to the floor. The mass of white serpents rose behind him, squirming over one another in their attempt to reach him.

  ‘Loop it about your arm!’ called Carver. ‘Quick!’

  Bergan’s fingers fumbled with the rope, throwing it around his shoulder and forearm, and holding it fast with his free hand. The men above heaved, hauling him up the tunnel a few yards. A worm appeared below him, opening its mouth speculatively and receiving the Bearlord’s boot in its face for its trouble.

  Another heave took him a yard higher, and soon the men were finding a rhythm, drawing Bergan away from danger. Or so they thought. The worms were climbing over one another now, filling the space below, four then five mouths snapping at the air as they allowed their muscles to undulate against one another, propelling them up the tunnel towards Bergan.

  Howard reached down to the Bearlord, extending his hand towards him.

  ‘Take my hand!’ cried the knight.

  ‘No!’ shouted Bergan. ‘Get back, Howard!’

  He kicked out again, as the circular mouths came ever closer and the stench of rotten flesh filled the air. Bergan was inches away from the top of the tunnel now as Howard lunged forward to grab hold of him. His hand connected, but his momentum took him too far, adding weight to the Bearlord’s bulk. Fry and Carver struggled to keep hold of the rope, letting a few inches of the hemp run through their hands in response to the sudden additional load. Those two inches were all it took.

  Howard’s hand flailed in the space where Bergan had been a second before as the knight slipped forward. Pick tried to snatch at the man, but it was too late; he was already falling. Howard tumbled past Bergan and landed on the bed of worm heads, the monstrous mouths immediately closing on him. Pick screamed.

  ‘Look away, child!’ Fry wailed as he and Carver pulled Bergan up the remaining length of the tunnel.

  Howard cried out in the worms’ embrace as their teeth tore into him, his screams rising in pitch.

  ‘Take the girl on, Fry, and be quick about it,’ said Carver, pushing the Sturmlander and the sobbing child towards the light. Bergan stood by Carver’s side as he pulled another knife from his belt. The Lord of Thieves looked at him.

  ‘You don’t need to see this,’ he said, raising the blade ready to throw.

  Carver was right. Bergan set off after the others without looking back, and Sir Howard’s cries were cut short as the Thief-lord let his knife fly.

  3

  Cutting the Net

  Having grown in number over the previous weeks, the Romari forces were ready to move. Though they lacked the military knowledge and organization of other armies in the Seven Realms, they more than made up for this in spirit. Guerrilla warfare was their chosen method of combat, and once they had reached Brackenholme, they would take the fight to the Catlords.

  With tents being folded away and wagons packed, the camp was a hive of activity. The solitary prisoner in their custody remained tied to the trunk of the Hanging Tree. Trent watched the Romari rushing about their business, each focused on their task and working quickly. He was impressed by their efficiency as the settlement vanished before his eyes. They intended to take him to Brackenholme and deliver him to the Bearlords where he could explain his tale first hand. Trent had other plans: such a journey would take too long with the procession of wagons, and if Lady Gretchen and Lady Whitley were in danger, any delay could be deadly.

  Behind the tree, the spare horses were tethered. Craning his neck, he could just see Storm’s chestnut brown mane gleaming in the early morning light. A short distance away, the fire that the Babas had gathered round was burning low. Baba Soba’s tent was still standing, and would be one of the last to be dismantled. He’d seen them take his equipment in there and there was something he couldn’t leave the camp without. A lone Romari warrior tipped a cauldron of water on to the embers, killing the smoking coals before kicking dirt over the pit.

  Trent waited until the guard had moved on before shaking the cords loose around his wrists. The Romari had underestimated the young man’s strength and experience, thinking that the ropes round the tree would be enough to hold him. But Trent had grown up on a Cold Coast farm, his hands were used to hard work, and ropes had played a key part in his duties. His apprenticeship in rope mastery had continued into the army, when as an outrider he was charged with looking after his mount. The cord bonds round his wrists had been a struggle to undo, but after two nights bound to the Hanging Tree he’d eventually worked them loose.

  Squeezing the ropes from around his chest, he slid down to the ground and scrambled round the fire-pit towards the old woman’s tent. Baba Soba had been the last to rise the previous day, only emerging around noon; he hoped this was routine for the soothsayer. The Romari would come to her last no doubt, only stirring her when they needed to be off. He pulled back the tent flap and ducked in.

  The tent was small, no grander than any others in the camp. Even so, it had the soothsayer’s marks all over it. The corpses of small creatures – rodents, sparrows and frogs – hung from the fabric ceiling, their desiccated bodies withered and shrunken. A chest lay open, all manner of strange paraphernalia cluttered within: pots, sticks, knives and animal skulls, lengths of fabric and balls of twine. At the opposite end of the tent, Trent spied what he’d come looking for: the Wolfshead blade, still in its sheath, leaning against the head end of the cot. Within the bed, Baba Soba slept, oblivious to the noises outside as her people worked.

  Nerves suddenly took hold of Trent, and the feeling he’d had the other night returned. He felt anxiety spreading now from his heart to his throat, threatening to choke him.

  Just breathe, you fool! She’s a blind old woman and she’s fast asleep. She can’t hurt you!

  He knew he was fooling himself. She may be old, but she was far from harmless. He’d heard rumours about the Babas from his comrades in the Lionguard: that they were witches, dark magisters who could curse you in the blink of an eye. What she’d done when he’d been dragged before her was no parlour trick. He was in no doubt that she had power over life and death.

  Drew, thought Trent. Drew needs me.

  As quickly as the fear had come, it was subsiding. Trent shook his head in disbelief. She was right about the words of magick, his brother’s name w
arded off her enchantment. Drying his clammy hands on his trousers, he set off across the floor, treading lightly on the Baba’s colourful rug, towards the far side of the chamber. As he passed the cot, he glanced at the old woman covered in blankets and animal skins, lost beneath the pile of bedding.

  Now at the bed’s head, he reached a trembling hand out towards the sword, drawing closer to the shining Wolfshead pommel. Slowly his hand closed round the handle, the grip cold against his flesh.

  In a flash, a skeletal hand shot out of the bedding, taking hold of his wrist. The grip was merciless, the touch like death itself. The covers fell away to reveal Baba Soba’s face inches from Trent’s, blind eyes wide and staring through the young outrider. Trent’s heartbeat instantly accelerated, nausea assailing him, his vision blurring. He tugged, trying to pull free, but he was trapped fast like a rabbit in a snare.

  ‘You love him?’

  The soothsayer’s words were quiet and gentle, though her grip was violent and strong. Trent knew full well of whom she spoke.

  ‘With all my heart.’

  The wise woman held on, considering his words. The scar on his palm ached from where she’d cut him when he was captured and read his blood with her sisters. She released his wrist suddenly, sending him sprawling on to the floor of the tent. Scrambling away, his back collided with the chest, causing the lid to slam down.

  ‘Go,’ she whispered once, closing her eyes and drawing her hand beneath the blankets. She rolled over, turning her back on him.

  Trent was crawling on all fours, the sword and scabbard dragging along the floor beside him as he made for the tent flap. He dipped his head through and looked around. The Romari who had covered the fire-pit was returning from where the horses were tethered.

  There was no time to delay. Though the Baba had allowed him to go, there had been no misreading her signals; it was she who was allowing him to steal away, not her people. If they captured him as he escaped, would she speak in his defence? He doubted it.