Authors: Curtis Jobling
Whitley sat in a booth at the back of the
smoke-choked bar, the hood of her travelling cloak raised around her face. Though she
kept her head dipped, her eyes missed nothing, passing over the inn’s clientele.
There were few present whose homeland she could name. Olive-skinned sailors from the
south rubbed shoulders with the pale-fleshed men of the north, granting the Drowning Man
a cosmopolitan feel. One fellow
strode past her booth, his face wrapped
in an Omiri kash, the favoured headdress of the Desert Realm. His eyes narrowed as they
caught hers before he joined his companions in the recesses of the bar. Whitley stared
into her half-empty mug, avoiding further eye contact. Here she was, one of the most
wanted therianthropes in all of Lyssia, right under the Lionguard’s noses but lost
in a sea of strangers.
She and her companions had witnessed
Redcloak justice as they’d made their way down the steep, cobbled streets towards
the harbour. The grisly remains of King Lucas’s enemies hung from gibbets beside
the road as a warning for all. Whether guilty of genuine crimes or not, Whitley would
never know, but none deserved such a fate. Her father, the Werebear Duke Bergan, had
executed men in the past. Such ceremonies were not for public consumption: they were a
means to an end, the punishment for crimes committed, and were carried out behind closed
doors. The torment ended with the axe blow – that was the law back in
Brackenholme. Whitley couldn’t imagine the pain the families of the gibbeted
criminals were now feeling, their loved ones swinging in the cages, crows and gulls
pecking at their corpses. The king’s justice was a cruel business, and judging by
the number of gallows that lined the streets of All Hallows Bay, business had been
good.
‘A crowd gathers.’
Whitley glanced up, the imposing figure of
Yuzhnik materializing beside her table. The Romari strongman squinted through the dirty
glass windowpanes at the street outside. Whitley followed his gaze, lifting her head to
observe the commotion. Sure enough, a boisterous mob had assembled in
the darkness, the blurred red cloaks of the Lionguard faintly visible by torchlight as
they led a prisoner through the street.
‘Another hanging? Another
murder?’
‘It’s none of our
business,’ replied Yuzhnik, coldly cutting the chat short before their anger could
rise.
He was correct, of course, mused Whitley.
They weren’t in All Hallows Bay to attract attention. The fishing port was a
stepping stone that would take her out to the White Sea, where her true destination lay.
Sighing, she pulled her attention away from the window and back to her giant
companion.
‘Did you find him?’
‘I found
her
,’ said
Yuzhnik, scratching his jaw ruefully. ‘I spoke to her first mate, Mister Ramzi.
You’ll find Captain Violca aboard her ship, the
Lucky Shot.
’
A short, glowering man lurched away from the
bar as if on cue. His drooping moustache glittered, the long, black hairs twined through
golden hoops. He nodded briefly to Yuzhnik as he passed by, making for the door.
‘That’s the fellow. A pirate if
ever I saw one.’
‘When does she expect us?’
‘Any time you’re ready.
Violca
will depart once the bells of Brenn’s temple ring out ten times and
the Watch are settling bar brawls. The
Lucky Shot
has
other …
consignments
to collect before she sails. And I’m
sure Violca will be picking up business until the moment she hauls anchor. Smugglers
can’t be choosers.’
Whitley reached up, placing her hand in
Yuzhnik’s huge, weathered palm. The Romari flinched at her touch, looking down
with surprise. She gave him a squeeze.
‘You’ll be heading back to the
forest now?’ she said quietly.
‘Indeed, my … friend.’
Yuzhnik smiled, stopping short of calling her a lady. It wouldn’t do for them to
get this far only for his good manners to reveal Whitley’s true identity to those
around them. ‘The forest’ was the name they used for the Bearlady’s
homeland, the woodland city of Brackenholme, deep in the heart of the Dyrewood.
‘My people escorted you here as
promised. Worry not; Violca can be trusted. Baba Soba said the captain’s always
been a friend to the Romari. This makes her a friend to you and “the
shepherd”.’
Whitley smiled at the mention of ‘the
shepherd’, another fitting code name.
‘Speaking of the shepherd, where is
he?’ added the Romari, his gaze wandering around the room over the assembled
patrons’ heads.
‘He’s out on the stoop. I think
he wanted to avoid drawing any further attention our way. After all, half of
Lyssia’s looking for the one-handed man.’
She polished off her mug of tea, squeezing
out of her booth to stand beside the Romari.
‘You’ll look after my
mother?’ asked Whitley. The question was unnecessary: the Romari people had sworn
fealty to the Wolf and his allies, and that meant the people of the Woodland Realm.
‘We shall look after
all
your
people, little one, for as long as it takes. The roads in and out of the forest will
remain ours: only death awaits those foolish enough to travel them. Just come back, and
bring an army with you.’
Whitley nodded, comforted by Yuzhnik’s
words. Picking up her pack, she set off through the door, the Romari behind. Stepping
out on to the stoop, the young woman looked both ways, searching for her companion who
awaited them in the darkness. There was no sign of him.
‘You say you left him out here?’
said Yuzhnik, frowning as he walked stiffly down the steps.
With night settling over All Hallows Bay,
the harbour front had transformed since their arrival that afternoon. Market stalls had
been cleared from the cobbles, replaced by stacks of lobster pots, traps and nets, the
town’s fishermen unloading their catches by lantern light. The boatmen kept their
heads down, steering clear of the cronies who assembled around a set of charred stocks.
Whitley watched with wonder as others disappeared indoors. Windows slammed shut and
curtains were drawn as the harbour became the playground of the Lionguard and their
followers.
The mob numbered a dozen, cheering on three
soldiers as they dragged a young man forward, a wolf’s head daubed on his bare
chest in black pitch. One Redcloak held a flaming torch as another shoved the boy into
the stocks. The beam snapped down, securing his head and wrists into the wooden frame as
the crowd jeered. The onlookers disgusted Whitley: here were the sympathizers who
embraced the occupying force, pandering to the enemy’s whims and securing favour
while their neighbours suffered. As their captain unfurled a whip, the crowd stepped
back.
‘I know you can all hear me!’ he
shouted, his voice booming through the emptying streets. ‘Don’t be shy: open
your
shutters! Take a peek at what awaits if you side with the
Wolf!’
The Redcloak paced away, letting the cord
trail through the dirt in his wake. Another soldier readied his torch, holding it high
for all to see. Whitley suddenly pieced together the youth’s fate. The tar on his
chest, the flame, the burned stocks:
the Lionguard intended to set
fire
to
the boy!
One old woman threw a rock at the lad’s head and his knees
buckled as blood streamed from his brow. Whoever the youth was, and whatever he’d
done, he didn’t deserve this.
‘Lackeys and lickspittles,’
muttered Yuzhnik, spitting into the dirt contemptuously. ‘Where
is
the
shepherd?’
Whitley stopped in her tracks, reaching out
to grab hold of the Romari, her eyes trained straight ahead beyond the mob.
‘Brenn help us …’
The Redcloak captain shook a ripple along
the whip’s length as he extended his arm back, preparing to strike. A wicked grin
splintered his face as he unleashed the leather towards the captive youth, sending it
licking through the air. But the whip’s tongue stopped short of the boy; it was
suddenly caught fast behind the Lionguard. The soldier’s arm snapped, a wail
escaping his throat as his whip was savagely yanked back. The Redcloak whirled on the
spot like a spinning top, his dislocated arm flapping in a grotesque fashion, before he
ended up in the dirt. The mob and remaining Lionguard turned as one, looking past their
injured officer towards the approaching figure.
This hadn’t been part of the plan.
They were supposed to slip unnoticed through All Hallows Bay like ghosts, phantoms
on the wind. Standing on the inn’s stoop, Drew Ferran had felt
that familiar, sinking feeling as the boy and mob appeared. He couldn’t stand by
and do nothing. He’d wandered around the crowd, disappearing into the shadows at
their backs, readying himself to intervene. He focused his heart and mind, his breathing
quickening as the beast’s blood raced through his shifting body. Dark hairs cut
through his weather-beaten flesh as his muscles grew, groaning beneath his studded
leather armour.
The fallen Lionguard tugged a knife from his
belt with his free hand, raising it high as he staggered to his feet. He snarled and
rushed his shadowy assailant, mangled arm trailing uselessly in his wake. At the last,
terrible moment he realized what manner of beast he was facing, the Werewolf leaping up
into the soldier’s torso and launching him skyward towards the shrieking mob. The
guard somersaulted through the air, limbs flailing, before crashing back to earth on his
head. Drew Ferran, the Grey Wolf of Westland, bounded forward.
The crowd – so brave moments
earlier as the soldiers abused their prisoner – turned to run. While the
soldier with the flaming torch remained beside the stocks, his companion lowered his
pike. The Werewolf twisted as he rushed the man, the heavy blade catching the beast
below the breastplate. Drew snarled, feeling the steel slice past his guts. He brought
his left arm up, fast and hard, an uppercut heading straight for the Redcloak’s
chin. The steel-capped stump of his wrist caught the man’s sweet spot, ligaments
snapping as the jawbone crumpled. The pike tumbled to the ground as the Lionguard
dropped, choking and fumbling at his shattered face.
The remaining Redcloak was already swinging
his torch.
Drew tried to step clear, but the Lionguard’s fury saw
the brand hit home, striking the Werewolf hard in the face. Burning flowers bloomed
before his eyes, the torch’s bright light blinding him. Sparks showered his head
and smoke scorched his throat as his fur smouldered. Drew knew only too well the danger
of fire, having witnessed first-hand the damage it could do to therianthropes, in spite
of their magical healing abilities. He raised a thick forearm to his face, trying to
wipe the heat from his eyes, but to no avail: the white glow filled his vision. The
Werewolf recoiled as the Lionguard seized the initiative.
‘Can it be true? The legendary Wolf my
masters fear, here, in All Hallows Bay? And frightened of a little fire?’
The soldier jabbed the brand into the
blinded Werewolf’s wounded guts. The torch sizzled as it met torn flesh, the
Redcloak giving it an awful twist as Drew howled in agony. The guard backed away, his
fingers reaching inside the collar of his steel breastplate. All the while he swung the
torch in great arcs, keeping the stunned Werewolf back.
‘Think of what they’ll say about
me!’ He laughed manically. ‘Sergeant Kramer, the man who caught the
Wolf!’
With a triumphant sneer, he tugged out a
signal whistle on a cord of leather and placed it to his lips. With his other hand, he
swiftly plunged the torch back towards the pitch-soaked youth in the stocks.
The flames never reached the captive boy,
the arm’s progress cut short by Yuzhnik’s descending axe. Severed limb and
burning brand clattered to the ground as the Redcloak cried in horror. The flat of the
blade silenced his scream, striking his temple with a sickening crunch.
Whitley dashed to Drew’s side, holding
his scorched face in her hands as his features shifted. The dark, burned hairs receded,
his muzzle shortening, drawing flush to his skull. Thick, powerful canines slid up into
his gums, grinding back like an ivory portcullis. The yellow eyes dimmed, the fearsome
Werewolf slowly returning to the boy from the Cold Coast. Drew blinked as he tried to
focus on his friend.
‘So much for us keeping a low
profile,’ Whitley whispered, brushing Drew’s singed hair from his eyes. The
young Wolflord managed a smile, wincing at her touch.
‘I thought you knew me by now,’
he said. ‘I’m not the best spectator.’
The Romari brought his axe down on the
stocks and splintered the bolts, aware that the fishermen stood in a huddle, watching.
Yuzhnik lifted the terrified youth from the broken wooden blocks and put an arm around
him.
‘They say you’re a Wolf’s
man, lad? Whether you were or weren’t, reckon you might be now.’
One of the fishermen rushed up, beckoning
the group frantically. ‘Hurry! The Redcloaks’ snitches will have spread word
of what’s just happened. There’ll be more here, soon enough.’
Whitley glanced around the marketplace,
catching sight of inquisitive faces peering from windows. She heard the distant cry of
the mob, calling for the watch’s attention. She turned to Yuzhnik.
‘What are the chances of Violca taking
the
Lucky Shot
out early?’
‘You’d better hope she’s
in a generous mood,’ said the Romari, turning back to the fisherman. ‘Lead
on, friend.’
Whitley set off after Yuzhnik as the Romari and
the young prisoner followed the fisherman deeper into the docks. She stopped, realizing
that Drew hadn’t followed. The young Wolflord stood by the broken stocks, his hand
held over his face. She dashed back to him, taking him by the arm.
‘Hurry, Drew. Now isn’t the time
for dawdling.’
‘Believe me, I’ve no desire to
linger,’ replied the youth, turning his tear-stained face to Whitley. His
red-ringed eyes stared straight through her.