War of the Werelords (13 page)

“By killing Lucas and his Wyldermen.”

“You'll be killing yourself in the process, even if you defeat him! Don't you see that? You heard what Magister Wilhelm said, Trent. When the moon becomes full, you
will
change, and this time there'll be no coming back! You'll become one of them!”

Trent turned angrily on the boy from Stormdale. “Don't you think I know that? I don't care what becomes of me! I just need to
stop
the rest of the Wyld Wolves, prevent them from doing this to anyone else!”

“There has to be another way.”

“There is none,” snarled Trent, snatching at his horse's reins. “Now run along back to your brother.”

“I don't know where he is now,” replied Milo.

“Then run along back to Stormdale,” said the Wolf Knight, straightening the riding blanket on his horse's back.

“I can't go back to Stormdale, not while there's a war to be fought in the west.”

“Then just run along!” snapped Trent as he turned to the boy. “You can't do any good here.”

“I beg to differ,” said Milo from where he sat high in Sheaf's saddle, ready for the road.

“What are you doing? You can't come with me.”

“I can do exactly that, Ferran. I won't be letting you out of my sight.”

“You can't help me, Milo. I need to do this alone, and I can't be responsible for your well-being. It's going to be dangerous where I'm heading. There's no road back.”

Trent gulped as he spoke the words, at peace with his terrible fate. He stared up at Milo who gazed back with sad eyes.

“You don't have to be responsible for me. I can look after myself.”

“Like in the ruins up there?” said Trent. “You'd have died if I hadn't come for you.”

“As would you if I hadn't gored the Wolfman with my antlers. Admit it, Ferran: we work well together.”

Trent sighed and shook his head. When he looked back to Milo his voice was a low growl.

“I'm going to deal horrors upon the Wyld Wolves like you cannot imagine, my lord.”

“And I'll be there for you, Trent.”

“For me?” he whispered.

“Indeed,” said Milo solemnly. “Because if you do succeed in slaying Lucas and his monsters before the full moon rises in two weeks, that'll leave just one monster that needs killing.”

“You'd do that?” asked Trent as he clambered up onto his mount alongside the young Buck's horse.

“I'll kill you myself, Trent.”

“Be sure you do,” said the Wolf Knight, “or you may die trying.”

T
HE
P
ORT OF
L
OST
S
OULS

STANDING ON THE DECK
of the
Maelstrom,
buffeted by the chill northern winds, Drew clutched the rail with his one hand. Summer it may have been, but Sturmland still found a way to grip one's bones with its frigid fingers. Somewhere, far along the Whitepeaks to the west, was Icegarden. Hector was there, mystery hanging over whether he was good or bad, alive or dead. Likewise, a mist hung over the port, so thick that the water was obscured from view, the ship floating on a sea of fog. Drew's hold was weak, his footing unsteady, as he took a moment to compose himself. Placing a foot on the gangway he set off toward the pier. Vega stared up as Drew descended, his look utterly disapproving.

“I can't believe you're coming,” said the Sharklord with a shake of the head. “You're unwell. You need bed rest.”

“I can't believe you thought I'd stay behind,” wheezed Drew as he stepped unsteadily toward land. “What kind of leader would I be if I sent others to fight in my place?”

“A leader who lives to fight another day,” replied Vega as the young Wolf joined him on the stone jetty. “A stiff breeze could snap you in two.”

Vega's concerned face confirmed what Drew already knew: Scorpio had won, even in death. Drew's skin had a horrid, gray pallor, slick with sweat. It had been an hour since he had last been sick, but he knew another bout of vomiting was on its way soon enough. How was there anything still left in his stomach?
I fear the next time I heave it'll be my intestines coming up.
The wound in his guts itched within and without, the flesh yellow and puckered, refusing to heal. In spite of his injury, he had to continue, could not let his men see just how ill he had become.

The Furies of Bast were assembled before them on the deserted, fog-bound pier, resplendent in their brown leather cuirasses. Blades were sheathed on either side of their armored hips. A hundred of the Tigerlord's warriors remained with them, the others having sailed on to Azra with Opal. Drew prayed that the Pantherlady had succeeded in her mission. The odds were hardly stacked in her favor with the Hyena's forces surrounding the Jackal's city. A handful of sailors from the
Maelstrom
and the
Red Dog
had followed them onto the pier, but there were plenty more seamen who remained aboard their vessels, refusing to come ashore.

“Why don't they join us?” asked Drew, noticing the rows of worried-looking faces aboard the ships.
Are those looks meant for me or the city at my back?

“
You didn't hear them?” said the count, looking inland, down the pier's length toward the city hidden in the mist.

“Hear what?”

“The dead,” said Vega, his voice a whisper.

It was a blessing that the Lions and Panthers feared the port as much as the Lyssians. The piers and jetties were utterly deserted, bar the two vessels the Wolf's forces had arrived upon. Drew had heard the talk aboard the
Maelstrom
as they'd approached Roby. The pirates were as superstitious a folk as one could encounter across the Seven Realms. As if the warning words of the late sea marshal hadn't been enough, other grim portents had dogged their progress: terrible storms, spells of sickness aboard the
Red Dog,
plus an albatross that had collided with the
Maelstrom's
main mast, falling broken-necked to the deck. For any one of those things to have happened would have made the crew grumble. For all three to happen confirmed their fears. The port of Roby was cursed. It belonged to the dead.

“I heard nothing,” said Drew with a shiver, turning away from the fearful faces of the sailors toward those pirates who had joined them. They looked awkward, shifting nervously, their eyes flitting along the pier toward the ruined city ahead.

“Still,” continued the Wolflord, aware of the seamen's unease, “it wouldn't hurt us to start moving, clear out of the city before nightfall. How far are the fishing villages along the northern banks of the Robben?”

“If we march out now we should reach one of those wee towns before midnight,” said Florimo, the Ternlord stepping lightly down the gangway to join them, Casper and Figgis at his back. “I scoured the coast just this morning at first light. There were all manner of fishing boats beached along the banks that we can use to get across. Far less conspicuous than sailing up the Robben in a pair of pirate ships.”

Looking past Florimo, Drew could see Casper had a pack across his shoulders, his shortsword tucked through a loop of leather on his belt. The lad's eyes were wide and serious as he remained behind the old navigator, seemingly hiding from his father. Figgis was glowering at the boy disapprovingly.

“No, lad,” said Vega. “You won't be coming.”

“I'm staying by your side, Father,” said Casper, the term still new to his lips as he stepped around the Ternlord.

“Not this time, son,” said the count, kneeling before the boy. “I need you to remain here, with the
Maelstrom.
With me gone, the ship needs a skipper.”

“That'd be Figgis, though,” exclaimed Casper, glancing up at the old sailor. “He's the first mate. Surely command should be his?”

Vega ruffled the cabin boy's head and smiled. “Ordinarily, aye, but not when the son of the pirate prince is aboard ship. Figgis, can I assume you'll remain alongside ‘Skipper' and assist him in any way required?”

“Certainly, my lord,” said the pirate, clapping a hand on Casper's shoulder protectively.

“I don't like it,” grumbled the boy.

“You don't have to. I'm your father, and more importantly your captain,” said Vega, winking affectionately. “Just do as I say, Casper. I'll see you again soon enough, and when I do I'll have a surprise in store for you.”

The two embraced, Vega kissing the boy's forehead before reluctantly releasing him. This was a side of the count that few people ever saw. Drew couldn't help but feel a touch envious, seeing the two together. His own family was gone, and fond though he was of the Sharklord he wasn't about to hug him anytime soon. Not for the first time he found himself wondering how Whitley was faring. The girl from Brackenholme was frequently on his mind.

Drew gritted his teeth as the pirate prince and son concluded their good-byes, the stump of his left arm held against the wound in his belly. The wind whipped across the stone jetty, catching Drew's cloak and threatening to blow him off his feet. A howl was carried along the breeze, a ghostly, eerie wail that caused all from the
Maelstrom
to turn and stare into the mist. But the haunting sound was the last thing on the Wolflord's mind. He was counting the days that had passed since Scorpio's quill had found his guts. The spine had been swiftly removed by a panicked Vega. But the damage was done; the powerful poison of the Werefish was working.

Drew was dying.

• • •

The Sea Marshal of Bast hadn't lied: Roby was a ghost town. The Wolf and his allies prowled along the dusty, cobbled avenue, eyes fixed upon the surrounding mists. The occasional building loomed through the cloudy curtain. Each bore the wounds of war, age-old scorch marks staining their crumbling facades. An eerie chill rolled off the ruins in waves, washing over the quick-moving troop as the fog swirled about them.

Drew kept the hood of his cloak about his face, shielding his fevered flesh from the wind. Again, the mournful wail sounded from the ruins, alarm spreading through the group and causing some to call out prayers. Others kissed the holy symbols they carried about their necks, calling upon their gods for favor while they made their way through the dead city. Florimo was out of sight, flying overhead, scouting the land about them. The Ternlord's wings were Drew's secret weapon, and the mind of the old navigator was just as crucial to winning the war in Lyssia. He understood the night sky better than anyone, and Drew had confided in him his crazy idea about harnessing the power of the moon. Florimo said it could work, if the heavens were in alignment. A lunar event was approaching, but time, alas, was against them.

Drew glanced to Vega at his side, the Sharklord's demeanor outwardly calm, though the hand on the basket pommel of his rapier told a different story.

“You mean to bring her back to him?” asked Drew, his voice threadbare.

Vega looked to him quizzically. “Who?”

“Shah.”

Vega winced at the mention of her name. “I already regret promising him something I may not be able to deliver. The boy deserves to know his mother and that's all I want for him. But what if we arrive in Bana and—”

The count couldn't complete the sentence, but Drew knew his implication. Shah and the rest of them—the Behemoth, Krieg, Taboo—might all be dead, like so many of their friends in this bloody war. But Vega, scourge of the sea and devil of the Cluster Isles, was a sentimental fool at heart. Even with the odds stacked against them, he still sought redemption, trying to be a hero in the eyes of his own child. To reunite mother and son would be the Sharklord's greatest victory ever. Drew prayed he might live long enough to see it.

Once more the howls echoed through the city, causing the Furies who marched up front to falter and come to a halt. The wind whipped up the dirt on the road, blowing it from the cobbles and sending it whirling about the company. Hands went to faces, arms across eyes, as men shielded themselves from the blinding dust storm. Drew dropped to one knee, tugging his hood tighter about his head, bringing his chin down to his chest. Even over the howling wind and now frantic shouts of his men, he could hear his lungs rattling, struggling to work. He spluttered, coughing, a glob of blood splattering on the cobbles by his knee.

The awful wailing kicked up a notch suddenly. Some of the men were running now, breaking rank. Even a few of the fearless Furies were bouncing into one another, colliding with the pirates from the
Maelstrom
and the
Red Dog,
all composure lost. Drew looked up from where he crouched, spying Vega still at his side. The Sharklord gripped his head in his hands, hair caught between knuckles, pressing his palms over his ears. He glanced down at Drew, trying to comprehend the power within the dread noise as their comrades dashed past them.

Those Furies who remained closed ranks around Drew and Vega, their twin swords sliding free of their sheaths as they readied for whatever was out there. Drew wanted to speak but found his throat now constricted, more blood gurgling up. He keeled over, collapsing onto the cobbles. Quickly, the count was beside him, cradling Drew's head in his hands as he trembled and twitched. Drew's vision blurred, the world turning red. He was vaguely aware of the bloody tears as Vega screamed into the howling wind.

“Help me!” shouted the Sharklord. “Somebody, help me! Sweet Sosha, save him!”

From where he lay in the street, Drew could see the sinister mist swirl and eddy, parting down the avenue ahead of them. The Furies who had remained stoic in the face of the terrible chorus of wails now backed up, staggering, some dropping to their knees. Even with his failing eyesight, Drew could see the ghost as it shimmered to life, stepping through the fog, drifting ever closer. The haunting howl was emanating from the specter's awful yawning mouth as it raised a clawed hand toward them. Then another materialized behind it, joining the first as they closed in on the cowering crowd in the street.

The last thing Drew saw before the world turned dark was Vega's stricken face, unable to cry out, his own voice lost as he shared the horror of the humans around him.