War of the Werelords (11 page)

Q
UILLS AND
I
LLS

“HOW CAN YOU
be sure he's telling the truth?” asked Drew, staring down the sea marshal of the Bastian navy where he stood chained to the brig wall. There was little room for maneuvering within the cell, just enough space for a jailer to step in to feed and tend to the prisoner. A cage of dark metal bars surrounded him, the door shut but unlocked, the Werefish posing no threat in his current predicament. A chain of iron links looped about his wobbling throat, pulled taut around his jutting jaw.

“I could keelhaul him, but I think he might enjoy that,” said Count Vega, smiling as Scorpio snarled at him.

“Why would I lie to you, Wolflord?” spat the Werefish. “My war's over, my life, too, for that matter. When the Catlords get wind of the
Bastian Empress
's fate, my neck'll be for the block.”

“You shouldn't be so negative,” said Vega. “Perhaps we can find an opening for you in the Lyssian navy. I know of a poop deck that needs mopping. Come to think of it, the privy could do with a good scrub, too.”

Scorpio laughed.

“I'd heard so much about you, Vega, but now I see most of it was just rumor of your own creation. Has there ever been a Werelord more in love with his own voice?”

The Sharklord only grinned wider. “But it's such a wonderful voice, don't you think, Scorpio? This voice has inspired a thousand sailors and broken as many hearts. It would be a crime to hide it away for fear it might make lesser therians such as yourself feel somehow unworthy.”

Scorpio leveled his hateful gaze on Drew, ignoring the count's mocking words. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, Wolflord.”

“I'm no murderer.”

“This is war, boy. No such thing as murder. We're all just doing our job. Happens to be that job's killing, something I'm very good at. Don't shed a tear for my well-being. I wouldn't waste one on yours. If the roles were reversed you'd be scooping up your guts from your lap and shoveling them back into your belly right now.”

“So long as you're our prisoner, I'll allow you to live, Scorpio. I won't see you killed.”

“You won't, eh? I'll remember that. You can't possibly win against the Catlords, Wolf. Tell me, what is it about these Lyssian Werelords that makes you take a stand against Bast?”

“That's where you and I are different. This isn't just about theriankind. My fight is also for humanity across the Seven Realms.”

“Humans?” scoffed Scorpio. “Why would you risk your life for those pathetic bottom-dwellers?”

“You couldn't begin to understand, Scorpio. Nobody—human
or
therian—should spend their life in slavery. Being born a Werelord doesn't automatically make you better than your neighbor. I fight for a free Lyssia in every sense of the word.”

“You fight for a lost cause,” said the Werefish. “Even if you somehow won this war, the Werelords of the Seven Realms would never stand for such change. Therians rule over humans. That is the way the world over. Your talk of freedom will bring a knife to your back.”

Vega interrupted, drawing the Fishlord away from his rant. “You say the Red Coast's impenetrable?”

Scorpio shrugged, jangling his chains. “I didn't say that. You can certainly land there. That said, chances are that you and Tigara's henchmen will be cut to ribbons in no time.”

The Werefish had seen the soldiers of the Tigerlord aboard the
Maelstrom
when
a handful of the Furies had joined Vega while the Sharklord interrogated the Bastian sea marshal.

“Because of this mighty force you tell us is stationed along the coastal road, correct?” said Vega, suspiciously.

Scorpio's eyes lit up. “I do hope you'll land there, Sharklord, and find out for yourself if I'm telling the truth.”

“Why such activity along the coast? How are such numbers gathered there?”

The Werefish sighed. “For starters, the remains of my fleet are anchored intermittently throughout the shallows. If you navigate your way past them somehow, you'll make land at the Pashan Road. This links the Doglord city of Ro-Pasha with the gateway to the west, the Bana Gap.”

Drew and Vega glanced at one another, the look not missed by Scorpio.

“You mean to aid your friends in the Gap?” he asked.

“What do you know of our allies in Bana?” said Drew.

“That they're as good as dead if they aren't already. Join them, by all means: land along the Red Coast and make haste to the afterlife.”

“This Pashan Road,” said Vega. “You haven't explained why it isn't safe for us to travel.”

“With the Bastian army concentrating on snuffing out what resistance remains in the Gap, the road provides a direct supply route for Field Marshal Tiaz's army. Bastians and Doglords alike traverse it in huge numbers, and the route is dotted with settlements, barracks, and oases of civilization. It's one giant war camp.”

“There has to be another way in,” said Drew, “some way of avoiding direct entanglements with Tiaz until we really can't.”

“If you're searching for a back door, there isn't one, Wolf,” said Scorpio triumphantly. “Tiaz is a master tactician and the land of Omir is his until he concludes his campaign in Bana. The desert realm is inaccessible.”

“You underestimate the fortitude of the Hawklords.” said Vega.

“
You
underestimate the stranglehold Tiaz has over the Gap. Your friends have been imprisoned there for months, throughout winter and spring. Those who aren't already dead will have been driven mad by hunger.” Scorpio grinned. “Bana is a tomb.”

“So they haven't surrendered?” said Drew, keen to seize any morsel of good news.

Scorpio grimaced. “Apparently not. Seems your Hawklords and their Omiri friends would rather die free than live in shackles.” He rattled his manacles as if to emphasize the point.

“Then there's still hope,” said Drew, turning to Vega. “If the Red Coast is closed to us, where else can we get ashore?”

“The River Robben,” replied the Sharklord. “We'd need to be wary, mind. The Great West Road is under Catlord control, and the river runs parallel to it.”

Scorpio snorted. “Do you really think we would've left the Robben unguarded?”

“That leaves only Roby,” said Vega quietly.

“Roby?” said Drew as the Werefish grinned. “I've never heard of it.”

“Why would you have?” interrupted Scorpio. “It's a ghost town, isn't it? Razed to the ground by Leopold when the Lion first took hold of Sturmland, a message to all in the Whitepeaks.”

“It was burned by the king?” asked Drew.

Vega explained as the Werefish giggled manically against the wall. “The Sturmish provided stiff resistance to Leopold, especially in the east. That land was home to your mother's people, of course, the White Wolves of Shadowhaven. Leopold made an example of Roby, near enough erasing the port off the map. That soon broke their resolve, and Duke Henrik bowed the knee. Reluctantly, of course, but bowed nonetheless.”

“Roby it is! Haunted by the dead,” said Scorpio, laughing uncontrollably. “Land there! Die there!”

Drew stepped up to the bars, his hand gripping the barred gate. “Haunted? What do you mean?”

But Scorpio's laughter cut off as abruptly as it had begun. “I'm done answering your questions,” he sneered, eyes narrowing. “You'll
allow
me to live, little Wolf? You don't get to choose who lives or dies!”

He slipped where he stood against the wall, his legs going from under him as his body dropped toward the deck. The chains went tight suddenly, throttling him around his hideous, bloated throat. Scorpio's feet writhed against the floor as he allowed his full weight to fall against the shackles, welcoming the agony that followed. His eyes strained from their sockets, a sickly grin spreading across his face. Drew moved forward toward the brig door, only for Vega to seize him by the bicep. The young Wolf glanced down at the Shark's hand, the count's face stern.

“Let go of me, Vega. He's choking in there.”

“By his
own
volition,” said the Sharklord. “If he wants to kill himself, let him.”

Drew yanked his arm free, lifting the handle of the grated door to step into the brig. With his one sweat-slicked hand he reached down, hooking it under Scorpio's stinking armpit as he tried to haul him up. The Bastian's feet lashed out, trying to keep the Wolf back as his neck crunched within his chain noose.

“Stop fighting me,” Drew snarled, trying to find a hold on the suicidal sea captain.

Scorpio's flesh was changing color now, not the strangulated hue of a hanging man, but bright flashes of yellow and orange fluttering across his throat. His clothes, already tattered from the prolonged interrogation at Vega's hand, tore loose as he welcomed the beast. Bright red spines with purple tips emerged from his head and shoulders as his body ballooned before them. Drew took a step back now, wary of the shifting Werelord.

The Sea Marshal of Bast spied the Werewolf moving back to the brig door. His legs kicked out again, one foot swiping Drew's legs from beneath him, the other kicking the barred door and sending it slamming shut. The metal hand clapped down, snapping into place as the young Wolflord fell against it.

Vega moved quickly, seizing the door and lifting the mechanism, looking to shove it open. To his horror he found Drew's prone body blocking the brig's threshold, stopping him from entering.

“Move, Drew!” Vega shouted. “The quills!”

Drew looked up in horror as the burbling, bloody Scorpionfish now materialized before them, the chain about its enormous, bloated throat almost decapitating it. Its hands and feet snatched at the air, sharp talons that swiped at an invisible foe as it approached death. Pulling himself to his knees, Drew snatched at the door, trying to open it and squeeze through while avoiding the monstrous Werefish.

“Forrrrr . . . Basssssssst . . .” were the last words out of its still grinning lips as they peeled back, revealing tiny razorsharp teeth that studded the jaws. Its body was almost spherical now, pockmarked flesh still undulating with color, mottled yellow, purple, and black. The poisonous quills rattled as it spun about, turning its spine-covered back Drew's way. A spine shot from the Scorpionfish's shoulder blade, hitting the deck at the youth's feet with a resounding
thunk.

“
No!” screamed Vega, kicking open the door, the bars smashing into the Wolflord as the Shark rushed in. His rapier was out, lunging through the air and finding the back of Scorpio's head. The blade went through, embedding in the brig wall on the other side, causing the Sea Marshal of Bast's struggling to instantly cease. The air in its swollen body began to dissipate at that moment, as if escaping a punctured wineskin, the monster's death rattle sounding with it. The quills that adorned its back went limp, falling flush against its hideous flesh as it hung suspended from the groaning timber wall, the chains still taut with the Scorpionfish's weight.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Vega turned to look at the young lycanthrope where he sat on the floor, arms crossed, sandwiched between the caged door and the barred walls of the brig. His face was pale, his eyes wide as he stared up at the dead sea marshal.

“Shocking, what some souls might do,” said Vega, nodding, as he held his hand out toward his friend on the pitching deck. “Here, let me help you up.”

Drew didn't move, hand and wrist stump holding his waist, horrified eyes still trained on the body that hung from the wall by chain and blade. Vega reached down, taking the youth's hand, attempting to haul him to his feet. His own face drained of color. There it was. Stuck in the lad's stomach was one of Scorpio's spines, its bloody base standing proud from Drew's flesh, its poisonous tip buried deep in his guts.

F
ATHER AND
S
ON

HIGH LORD OBA
closed his clawed hand around his son's throat, lifting the other's jaw until their gazes met. Onyx's own hand came up, seizing his father's neck, feeling the Adam's apple bobbing in his grasp. The two partially transformed Pantherlords held each other there for a moment, teeth bared, paws gripping, green eyes locked upon one another. Oba's jaws yawned open, a roar emerging that sent spittle showering his son's face. Onyx's eyes narrowed before Oba's show of strength. Then it was his turn. The younger Beast of Bast suddenly towered over the Lord of Braga, growing a further foot in height, leaving his father in his shadow. He bellowed back, his canines snapping as he shook Oba.

The snarls were suddenly replaced by smiles as the two Werepanthers embraced, hands moving from throats to backs as they patted one another. The hug was bone-crunching, each threatening to crush the other in his arms, Oba's splinted left arm trapped between them where it rested in a sling. He pulled his son away from his chest and held him before him, right hand on shoulder.

“It's been too long, my boy,” said the Lord of Braga.

He released Onyx, clapping his arms, before stepping past him. The son turned on his heel, following his father through the command tent. Oba paused by the two enormous black jaguars that lounged before the fire pit. The two rolled onto their backs like kittens as the old felinthrope crouched to scratch their bellies.

“It's good to see you, too,” said Onyx, stepping over to the table and pouring a goblet of wine for his father. “I'm pleased you got here in one piece. I was beginning to worry.”

“You received my message, then?”

“Sending the Vulturelord Ithacus struck me as a decidedly serious thing to do. I thought he was dead, or at the least you'd put him out to pasture.”

“He was enjoying his retirement when I called upon him. Old as we are, he's still my most faithful lieutenant. There's nobody I'd trust more with important news. Nobody more than yourself, that is.”

Oba straightened from the big cats and turned to his son, accepting the golden cup. He took a hearty swig, watching the other all the while. Onyx noticed the cuts on his father's face, awful furrows that had been carved through his cheek.

“We encountered Staglords on the road from Highcliff,” said Oba. “You know about them?”

“I know they've been striking our smaller camps. Brave of them to launch an ambush on your party, though, Father.”

“Brave indeed. There was one of their number whom I'd dearly love to meet again, on my own terms.” He lifted the broken arm in its sling. “I've the Wolf Knight to thank for this.”

“One of the Staglords did it?” asked Onyx. “They're a thorn in my paw. Lord Reinhardt leads them, perhaps it was him.”

“This was no Staglord. He let me know his name as we fled. Tell me: does Drew Ferran have any siblings?”

“You know as well as I that they were slaughtered by Leopold when he took the throne, Father. He's the sole surviving child of Wergar.”

Oba stroked his jaw. “He said his name was Trent Ferran.”

“Ah,” said Onyx. “This brother, Trent Ferran, isn't related by blood. It was Trent's father who raised Drew as his own. In fact, Trent was once a Redcloak, working closely with my cousin Lord Frost, until he betrayed us. His ferocity has Muller's men running scared. And if he could do this to you . . .”

“He's strong for a human,” muttered Oba, glancing at his slung arm. “Unnaturally so, I'd say. But he is, at the end of the day, a mere human, no?”

Onyx nodded. The Beast of Bast was quiet suddenly, stepping up to look at Oba's face. He traced a thumb over his father's ripped cheek.

“These injuries: from the Wolf Knight also?”

“Yes,” replied Oba with a snarl. “As I said, our business is unfinished.”

“It hasn't healed yet? When were you ambushed?”

“Five days or so ago,” grunted the Lord of Braga. “I'd like your magister to take a look at it, actually.”

Onyx peeled his lips back, his growl deep and rumbling. “It should be healed by now if a human did this. Which can mean only one thing.”

He stepped away, pouring his own goblet of wine and polishing it off in a swift swig. Oba stepped up to a polished mirror that hung from the tent wall, turning his face so he could better see the livid wounds.

“What's that?” said Oba.

“That Ferran is no longer human.”

“Explain yourself, Onyx. Do not test me with riddles. I am weary after a long journey. That you didn't bother to send anyone to meet me when I landed in Highcliff is something that I haven't yet raised with you.”

“We're preoccupied here, if you hadn't noticed, Father. Sturmland has proved a tougher nut to crack than expected. A necromancer has taken up residence in Icegarden, just as it looked like the city was ours.”

“What necromancer?”

“Blackhand they call him. He's a Boarlord from the Dalelands, an old friend of the Wolf's before he immersed himself in dark magistry. My men are fearful of getting too close to the frozen walls of Icegarden: they say he can raise the dead.”

Oba laughed. “Men will say many things when they're gripped by superstition. This Blackhand is an illusionist, a trickster, no more. Send your army to Icegarden at once. Tear down the walls and drag the Boar out into the open. Let's see how his dark arts help him then.”

Onyx's eyes narrowed. He knew better than to challenge the old man. Blackhand was no trickster; Onyx had seen firsthand the kind of power the magister wielded. Rather than argue with his father, he chose another tack.

“Blackhand isn't the only danger we face in Sturmland. The White Bear of Icegarden's forces remain in the foothills—we cannot turn our backs upon them. They're led by Duke Bergan, the Lord of Brackenholme. If I could have spared an escort to meet you in Highcliff, don't you think I would have?”

Oba sneered at his son. “You mentioned this Trent Ferran being ‘no longer human' earlier. Explain what you mean
.”

Onyx paced around the fire, crouching on his haunches to look into the flames.

“Lucas has been consorting with a Wylderman shaman named Darkheart.”

“What are Wyldermen?”

“Wild men of the woods. They're bloodthirsty cannibals.”

“A shaman, you say? Their version of a magister?”

Onyx picked up a steel poker and stoked the fire, sending a shower of sparks up toward the hole in the command tent's ceiling.

“The magicks that our magisters use are a world away from the Wyld Magicks of a Wylderman shaman. This Darkheart has taken the severed limb of Drew Ferran and brought about a new wolf creature, something neither human nor therian.”

“A new breed of Werewolf?” gasped Oba from across the burning pit.

Onyx shook his head. “It's a mockery of a therian lord, Father—more beast than man. Around twenty wild men took part in Darkheart's ceremony, with Lucas's blessing, and each transformed into one of these ‘Wyld Wolves.' I've seen what happens to those who survive their attacks. If they live and the disease doesn't kill them, they also go through the change.”

“And you believe this Trent Ferran is one of these diseased Werewolves?”

Onyx pointed the poker at the old man's face through the flames. “If the Wolf Knight delivered those wounds to your face, then I believe that to be the case. Those are therian wounds, Father. They'll scar.”

Oba angrily threw his goblet into the fire.

“All thanks to that foolish young Lion, Lucas? All the more reason why he, and his kind, have to go. You know why I'm here, Onyx?”

“Word travels fast across the Seven Realms.”

“The union of the Catlords is broken. Panthers, Lions, and Tigers have all gone their own ways, and their allies with them.”

“It seems impossible. How did this happen?”

Oba glowered. “Your sister.”

“You're wrong,” growled Onyx. “I know Opal. She would never betray the union. She's one of us.”

“She was once, but no more.”

The Beast of Bast's eyes narrowed. “What did she do?”

“She sailed to our homeland, brought the Wolf to Leos, right to the heart of our most sacred meeting place, the Forum of Elders. And that's where she chose to . . . clear her conscience.”

“Her conscience?”

“I think you know what I speak of, my boy. Cast your mind back.”

Onyx stared at his father, unblinking. “Taboo?”

Oba smiled grimly at the mention of the young Weretiger who had been framed for the murder of her Cheetah lover. The murder committed by Onyx.

“There are no more ghosts in Bast, son. It all came tumbling out in the forum: the death of Chang, the banishment of Taboo, and the complicity of the Lions in the whole sorry affair.”

“How has this resulted in the Lions now being our enemy?” said Onyx. “High Lord Leon has been our staunchest ally since you, he, and Tigara first carved up Bast. That we stand against the Tigers, I can stomach—they were always a breed apart, disapproving of our methods in cowing other therians. But the Lions?”

“It seems once your dear sister started speaking, she couldn't stop herself. She told Leon that Lucas killed his own father, Leon's son—because of you.”

During his reign, Wergar the Wolf had been feared but respected by the people of the Seven Realms; Leopold the Lion, who stole his throne, was feared, hated, and ridiculed. When the young Wolf, Drew Ferran, rose to prominence as a claimant of the throne, Onyx, Opal, and a Bastian war-force had sailed north to Lyssia to seize back the lands in the name of the Catlords. After that disgrace, Leopold couldn't remain in power; he was insane, unstable, and utterly unreliable. Onyx felt sure he and Opal had done what anyone would've in their shoes: pointed out Leopold's shortcomings to his proud—and equally unhinged—son. Lucas had done the rest, slaughtering his father and seizing the crown in his place.

Oba continued. “So now the old Lion has sailed to Lyssia in his son's name, as I sail in yours.”

“Mine?”

“Of course. You're no longer just fighting the Wolf and his allies, among whom the Tigers now count themselves—you also have Leon and Lucas to contend with. Let's smite this whelp of a Lion and smear his carcass across the Seven Realms.”

“I need to find him first. Lucas has run off with his Wolfmen, searching for Lady Gretchen, the Fox of Hedgemoor to whom he was betrothed. I've sent Count Costa to look for him. Hopefully the Vulturelord can track him down and bring word back to me before Lucas gets wind of what's happened back home.”

“You trust Costa?” asked his father.

Onyx arched an eyebrow. He rose to his full height before the fire, striding back to the table where his map was laid out, marking the shifting whereabouts of the Bearlord's forces. They grew fewer every day. Could he really be so close to victory only for his own felinthropes of Bast to arrive and spoil everything?

“This army of Leon's skirts the Dyrewood presently, marching north via the Talstaff Road,” he said, jabbing the map with a thick forefinger. “How many do they number?”

“I couldn't say for sure,” said Oba, stroking his damaged cheek. “His is a hastily prepared army, as is my own.”

“So he's ill prepared?”

“I wouldn't go so far as that,” said Oba. “He brings his greatest Redcloaks from Leos. These aren't Lyssian Lionguard, the fools who served Leopold. These are Bastian warriors.”

“Please tell me the army you've brought is a match for him.”

“The small force of Goldhelms who accompanied me today is the first wave. More come—they were in the process of securing Highcliff for us, dispatching or imprisoning what Redcloaks remained there.”

Onyx's eyes widened as High Lord Oba continued.

“You need to weed out those who are loyal to us and those who stand against us, be they human or therian. Who's the one they call the sheriff?”

“That's Muller. He's the Lord of the Badlands.”

“They make a human a lord in Lyssia?” sneered Oba, nose curling in disgust.

“It's a self-proclaimed title, Father. The sheriff is an ambitious man.”

“The sheriff doesn't know his place,” replied the High Lord, “like so many other pathetic humans in the Seven Realms. They're only fit for slavery. That he should rise to such lofty position makes a mockery of the natural order. He's the first one you should make an example of when this war is won: hang him from the highest rooftop for all humanity to see. Remind them of their place.”

Onyx nodded, knowing all too well his father's opinion of men. The old Panther continued.

“Decide which Werelords on your war council are with us. It doesn't matter where their allegiance used to lie. Bastian or not, there can be no gray areas: they're either with us, or against us. If they say they're loyal to Lucas and Leon, then consider that their death warrant.”